Deeper Than Colour The Kioku Story
by Leia
Summary: [In Progress] CHAPTER 10 UP. An alternate Mirai timeline. The Earth is a shattered playtoy in the hands of the jinzouningen. Piccolo's son and Trunks struggle as Earth's last defenders . . . while trying to keep their families - and sanity - intact.
1. Old Wounds

Disclaimer: Dragonball/Z/GT are not mine. I have no claim to them. If I had, I'd round up all my favourite stories on fanfiction.net and make them into episodes, movies, or T.V. specials! I love you all! 

A/N: Well, here it is. This is the epic that followed "I'm Not Going to Leave You" (if you haven't read that, you probably should. It's not a plug -- it's just fairly necessary to fully understand the circumstances behind this story). Thank you to everyone who reviewed INGTLY, and who encouraged me to post this continuation -- I wasn't sure whether or not to leave it as a stand-alone fic. 

This is the story of Piccolo's son's life. Starting from his birth, through to ??? (come on! Like I'm going to give it all away now!), it details his life in the alternate timeline. He sees the deaths of the Z fighters at the hands of the androids, and ... heh. Well, we'll see, won't we? 

I wasn't sure how to categorize this in the summary. Throughout the story is action, drama, angst, pain, and the importance of friendship and family. Well, you'll have to decide what genre it belongs in. 

One last note before I end my rambling (I do that a lot, don't I?): See if you can figure out where the title, "Deeper Than Colour" came from. It's not that difficult, of course, but *puts hand behind head and laughs* it'd be interesting to see if you get it. 

Deeper Than Colour: The Kioku Story

**Chapter One: Old Wounds**

"Here, little one . . . there, there, sweetheart . . . drink up."

Low, motherly crooning filled the darkened bedroom as Son ChiChi sat in a rocking chair, cradling a tiny infant in her arms.  She held a bottle filled with water in one hand, and she gently guided the nipple to the child's mouth.  The baby responded, sucking greedily, draining the contents of the bottle in minutes.

"Good boy," ChiChi chuckled softly, rocking slowly.  "You're such a sweetheart . . . yes, you are!"

Warm hands rested on her shoulders, making her jump, and ChiChi turned her head to see her husband looking down at her.  "You make such a good mother," Goku remarked, a small, loving smile crossing his face.

"How could I not be?" ChiChi responded, still in the low-pitched voice she used to talk to the baby.  "With such an adorable little boy?  Yes, you are . . . yes, you are!"

Goku laughed, and he reached down a hand, holding it in front of the baby's face, and tickled the tiny antennae protruding from the high forehead.  The child swatted at him, then he grabbed Goku's index finger with his own green ones.  "He's got quite the grip on him," Goku observed, as the infant continued to keep its hold on his finger.  "You can tell he's Piccolo's kid."

A dark look settled over ChiChi's face, and she shuddered, holding the helpless infant close.  "Poor Piccolo . . . I wish he hadn't --" she broke off, not finishing the sentence, because she couldn't find an honest way to end it.  If Piccolo had not died, if he hadn't sacrificed himself the way he had, her son, Gohan, would not be alive.

"I wish there had been some other way," ChiChi amended, sighing.  "This poor little baby . . . he didn't even get to see his Daddy."

"I know," Goku came around in front, and he sat on the arm of the chair.  ChiChi scooted over to give him room, and when Goku sat down, she moved onto his lap.  "Piccolo wouldn't want you to grieve, ChiChi.  He'd want you to be happy, for -- for his kid's sake."

ChiChi rested her head against Goku's broad chest, shivering.  She didn't like to think of Piccolo's death . . . it must have been so horrible for him.  "He doesn't even have a name yet.  I don't know what to call him.  Do you?"

"Nah," Goku shook his head, stroking the infant's smooth forehead with one finger.  A wide grin split the tiny face, revealing two small, but sharp, fangs.  "I couldn't even name _mine_, remember?  Why don't you ask Gohan?"

ChiChi hesitated, and she bent down to plant a kiss on the child's cheek.  He latched his fingers in her hair, and it took both her and Goku's combined efforts to pry him loose.  "I don't know, Goku-sa.  Gohan's been pretty secluded since Piccolo died.  He won't even look at the baby."

"It's only been a week, hon.  Give him time," a thoughtful look crossed Goku's face. "And maybe naming the kid will help him get to like him."

"Maybe," ChiChi conceded, and she rose, cupping the infant's head in one hand protectively, holding him to her.  "All right, I'll go ask him.  Where is he?"

"I think he's out in his tree house," Goku shrugged.  "... I think, anyway."

"All right.  Thanks, dear."

  


The baby batted at ChiChi's earrings as she carried him outside, and the human woman shook her head.  This tiny life seemed so opposite of Piccolo -- happy, carefree, and at peace with the world.  He was always smiling.  But one thing was the same; the way he looked at her, and at Goku, with unbridled love and affection . . . Piccolo's eyes had held that exact expression when he would look at Gohan, when he thought no one was watching.

The child frowned, his small eyebrow ridges coming together as a tear fell from ChiChi's eyes to land on his face.  "Poor Piccolo," ChiChi whispered again, and she stopped walking, looking up at the stars.  She had hated Piccolo for so long, never forgiving him for taking Gohan away from her -- not only physically, but sometimes she felt Piccolo had stolen Gohan's heart, as well.  Gohan often showed more caring toward his Namekusejin friend than he did his mother, and ChiChi had wept more than once because of that.

But through the past couple of years, ChiChi began to understand the rapport that existed between her son and his teacher, and eventually she learned to accept it.  She even accepted Piccolo himself, inviting to stay whenever he wanted.  Once, she had come outside and found him hovering in the air, watching the stars.

_"What are you looking at?" ChiChi inquired softly._

_The green-skinned alien inclined his head ever-so-slightly in her direction, but that was the only acknowledgment he gave of her presence.  ChiChi took the hint, and turned to go.  "Sorry, Piccolo.  Didn't mean to bother you."_

_"I'm not looking at anything."_

_The voice startled her, causing her to walk back to him.  "What do you mean?"_

_He pointed, his long, taloned finger indicated a section of space, dotted with sparkling stars.  "There.  That's where Namekusei should be, if Furiza hadn't destroyed it."_

_ChiChi didn't know what to say, so she did the next best thing -- she said nothing at all.  Piccolo sighed, a quiet sound that ChiChi wasn't even sure she heard.  "I should have been born there," Piccolo continued, his tone bitter.  "But no, my stupid _father_ had to come _here_.  I had to grow up on a world that hates me, and doesn't care about me except that it needs me for the Dragonballs.  I should have been born on Namekusei -- I would have fit in there."_

_Though she wanted to protest that Piccolo wasn't hated, ChiChi knew she couldn't.  She had harboured that same emotion against him for years, before finally allowing to let it go.  "Maybe, but I'm glad you were born here."_

_"Really," one corner of Piccolo's mouth quirked, an indication of surprise.  "I thought you hated me.  The whole chasing me around with a meat cleaver, yelling that you'd make me into Namek steak thing , kind of indicates a lack of feeling."_

_ChiChi laughed, embarrassed.  "I was stupid, then.  I didn't realize how much you meant to my Gohan-chan.  If you hadn't been there, Piccolo, he . . ." she drew in her breath sharply, not even wanting to think of the possibility.  "My baby would have died.  I never thanked you for that, so . . . thank you.  I really do appreciate you."_

_"Feh," Piccolo snorted, "At least I know where Gohan gets that stupid mushy side to him."_

_"Well, it's not from Goku, that's for sure," ChiChi shot back, and she rested her fingers on his arm for a second.  His skin was surprisingly warm and dry -- somehow, she had expected it to be cold and slimy, like a reptile.  Colour rose to her cheeks as she realized the prejudice of the assumption.  "Honestly, though, I can't thank you enough.  You've done more for my boy than anyone else could have."_

_"Yeah, whatever," Piccolo mumbled, and he returned his gaze to the heavens, but this time, ChiChi noted the expression on his face was no longer of wistful longing. _

_  
_

_She smiled, and turned to go back inside.  Just before she did, however, the wind blew two words back to her: "You're welcome."_

ChiChi kissed the infant's soft forehead again, and she came to the base of the tree.  "Gohan-chan?" she called. "Are you up there?"

"I'm sleeping up here, Mom," Gohan's voice floated down to her, and ChiChi winced.  She recognized the thickness that accompanied the aftermath of despaired crying.

"Just come down for a minute, please, sweetheart?  I want to ask you something."

Gohan sighed gustily, then there was a rustle of leaves and he dropped to the ground.  He held some white material around his shoulders, and ChiChi first thought it to be blanket -- but then she identified it as Piccolo's cape, minus the weighted shoulderpads.  Her throat tightened.

An inquisitive smile, though somewhat forced, had brightened Gohan's boyish face, but when he saw the infant cradled in his mother's arms, a scowl slammed into place over his features.  "What did you have to bring _it_ for?" he demanded roughly.

"Gohan!" ChiChi reprimanded him, but didn't scold him too harshly.  It was still soon after Piccolo's death, and his passing was a raw wound in Gohan's heart.  "He's the reason for my question.  It's been a week now, and we still haven't named him.  What do you think we should call him?"

Gohan's eyes flashed, a steely glint that ChiChi didn't like one bit.  "How about 'Gomi'?"

"_Garbage_?" ChiChi repeated incredulously, the pity she felt toward him quickly evaporating in the face of her sudden anger.  "What kind of name is that?"

"It's what it is," Gohan snarled, "A pathetic attempt to replace Piccolo, that's all.  Why should I care what its name is?"

"I don't believe you!" ChiChi ejaculated, muscles tightening with rage.  The tiny baby felt her tense up, and it must have scared him, because he began to wail.  "It isn't _his_ fault Piccolo died.  He was Piccolo's gift to you, I'm sure of it -- he didn't want you to have to go through this alone."

Gohan's lip trembled, and for a second the mask of anger slipped, revealing the sad, frightened nine-year-old boy beneath.  Seconds later, however, Gohan's eyebrows met in a defensive glare, and the vulnerability was gone.  "Well, I guess Piccolo screwed up, huh, Mom?" his voice was tight and controlled, but the pain beneath it was obvious.  "First mistake he ever made, if he thought some stupid brat could ever replace him."

The boy's chest heaved, and he let out a sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob.  "Piccolo-san was my best friend, Mom.  I'm not letting that . . . that . . . _thing_ come between us," he flung his hands in front of his face, shoulders shaking. "Did you hear that?  I said Piccolo _was_ my best friend.  I didn't mean it, Piccolo-san -- you're still my best friend! _...See_?" he demanded, rounding upon his startled mother.  "I don't want to forget Piccolo.  And I don't want to get to know his son.  Okay?  Now leave me alone."

ChiChi frowned as a thought struck her.  "Gohan-chan . . . it doesn't matter whether or not you miss Piccolo or you don't want his child to replace him -- you have a duty to this baby, to raise him as Piccolo raised you.  Can't you see that?  He left the baby with you, thinking you would take care of him, and train him.  It's your obligation, as Piccolo's friend."

"You're taking care of it just fine, Mom."

"Gohan!" ChiChi was shocked, hardly believing what she was hearing.  "This is so unlike you!  What happened to my sweet, little boy, the one who always wanted to take care of everything himself?"

  


Gohan's mouth twitched, and his eyes hardened.  "He died with Piccolo.  I'm sorry if you don't understand that, but Piccolo-san is everything to me.  I wish I could take care of the kid, but . . . I can't.  It isn't Piccolo, no matter how much it looks like him.  I'm sorry."

Wrapping Piccolo's cape firmly around himself, Gohan flew back into the tree.  ChiChi stared after him in shock, startled that her sweet little boy could hold such hatred inside him for something so small and innocent.  Who, at that moment, was screaming his little lungs out.  ChiChi swallowed the bitterness that rose up inside her, and she rocked the infant in her arms, cooing softly.

"He didn't mean it, baby.  Don't worry, sweetie . . . he's just upset about your Daddy, that's all," ChiChi looked up at the tree, where she could hear the sound of soft crying.

"Go to bed, Mom," Gohan called, his small voice trembling, and ChiChi sighed.  There was nothing she could do for him tonight.  He would have to deal with his grief in his own way, in his own time . . . and when that was over, she hoped he would come to accept Piccolo's child.

"Come, baby, it's time for you to go to bed," ChiChi lifted the as yet unnamed infant to her shoulder, patting his back as the miniature Piccolo burbled contentedly.  "And we still have to find a name for you, too."

Goku frowned in sympathy as ChiChi came back inside, and he took the baby from her.  "He didn't take it well, did he," the Saiyajin guessed, patting the baby's back.  ChiChi shook her head, and she leaned against her husband's side.  "I felt Gohan's energy rise, and I figured he got mad."

"He got mad, all right," ChiChi slipped her arm around Goku's waist, needing to feel close to someone.  "Goku, we're losing him.  Piccolo is everything to him, I - I don't know what to do."

"Me, neither," Goku admitted quietly.  "Man, I wish Piccolo was here.  I wish Gohan hadn't caught that virus, I wish . . ." he snorted derisively.  "I wish too much, did you know that?"

They reached the bedroom, and the couple sat down on the bed.  The baby curled up against Goku's chest, sleeping peacefully, and Goku smiled abstractedly at him.  "It should've been me," Goku declared suddenly, and the self-loathing in his voice made ChiChi jump.  "Not Gohan, not Piccolo . . . me.  You heard the doctor -- the disease Gohan caught had never been seen on Earth before."

"So what?" ChiChi studied his face, searching for the reasoning behind his proclamation.  "It doesn't mean it should have been you!"

"You don't understand!" Goku burst out, with such force that the child resting in his arms jumped, his face scrunching into a frown.  "Oops," Goku muttered, "Sshh, kiddo'.  Back to sleep, back to sleep," he waited until the infant relaxed before continuing.  "I brought the disease.  I'm the carrier."

"What?!"

"I brought it from Yardrat, ChiChi," Goku hung his head, his dark bangs brushing the top of the baby's head.  "That's the only thing that makes sense.  I can't think of any other way the virus could have come to Earth . . . I had to have brought it.  No one else has been off-planet around here.  It had to be me.  Once Gohan figures that out -- and I know he will, he's a smart kid -- he'll never be able to forgive me, I know he won't . . . I killed Piccolo, by bringing that virus to Earth.  O, ChiChi . . ." a low sob caught in his throat, and he began to shake.

ChiChi was powerless to do anything to help as her husband fought not to lose control.  "Goku . . . I . . ." she broke off, knowing any words would be empty and meaningless.  "Even if it's true, you can't take anything back.  If you hadn't gone to Yardrat, you wouldn't have learned the _Shunkanidou_, and you wouldn't have been strong enough to defeat Furiza, when he came here.  We'd all be dead then.  Goku-sa, listen to me --"

  


But it wasn't ChiChi who brought Goku out of his stupor.  Instead, it was the feel of a tiny child, who reached up a hand and touched his surrogate father's face lightly.  "Ba-ba-ba?" he inquired sweetly, patting Goku's ear.  The infant frowned when he felt the wetness on Goku's cheeks.  "Ga-ba-da, ba-ba," the child entangled his fingers in Goku's hair, and raised himself up.  Smiling, he placed a hand on each side of Goku's face, then planted a kiss right on the end of Goku's nose.

Goku clutched the child close to him, and he buried his face in the baby's shoulder and cried.

Eventually, Goku calmed down and became aware that ChiChi was rubbing his back, speaking to him in soothing tones, and the child was babbling nonsense.  "I'm sorry," he muttered huskily, "I didn't mean to flip out like that," he groaned and leaned back, his head coming into contact with the wall.  "I'm so sorry, Piccolo . . ."

"Speaking of whom, his son still needs a name," ChiChi reminded him gently.

"O yeah," Goku grimaced, "A name . . . aw nuts, ChiChi, I'm no good at this!  Why don't we just call him Piccolo Jr.?  No, wait," his forehead wrinkled in thought.  "Technically, _Piccolo_ was Piccolo Jr., so would that make his kid Piccolo Jr. Jr.?"

"Don't be ridiculous," ChiChi laughed, realizing the funny side to the dilemma.  "'Piccolo Jr. _Jr_.'?  What kind of a silly name is that?  Why can't we give him a name that will honour Piccolo's memory without being so obvious?"

Goku's head snapped up.  "That's it!"

"What?"

"Memory!  Why don't we call the kid Memory?" Goku smiled affectionately at the infant, who copied the expression happily.  "Yeah, that's a good name for you," he crooned.  "Memory."

ChiChi nodded in agreement, and she tickled the baby under the chin.  "Well, Kioku," she declared, "I think you've found your name.  And a good, one, too.  Your Daddy would be proud."

Kioku just laughed, and he waved his tiny arms in the air, grinning at nothing in particular.

******

"Look at them," Briefs Bulma remarked, watching the two children romp and play across the room.  "They're so cute!"

ChiChi smiled, one hand curled around the mug of tea she was drinking.  "Yeah, they are," she chuckled.  Nine-month-old Kioku was toddling frantically after his friend Trunks, who was six months his senior.  "Kioku's a handful, though, let me tell you that!  He's already showing some telekinetic abilities."

"Really?" Bulma raised an eyebrow, regarding the small, green child who was giggling hysterically after falling on his bottom.  "Like what?"

"Like nothing's safe from him," ChiChi shook her head and took a sip of her tea.  "He wanted to play with Gohan's old sword the other day -- you know, the one Piccolo gave him?  So I put it high up in the cupboard . . . Kioku stared at it, and then his eyes got a real funny look in them, and sure enough, the darn sword just _floated_ out of the closet.  If I hadn't caught it --"

Bulma laughed.  "Piccolo Jr., here we come," she paused to call out warningly, "Hey, you two, keep where we can see you!"

"Don't wanna'," Trunks pouted, sticking out his bottom lip and crossing his arms in an amusing, yet frighteningly accurate, imitation of his father.  "Wanna' go play with Papa in the trainer."

  


"He'd squish you," Bulma replied amiably, but something flashed in her eyes, and when she lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she brushed slightly at the corner of her eye.  It was a subtle movement, but ChiChi noticed anyhow.  "Don't get Daddy mad, okay, kid?"

Trunks' small face puckered with distaste, and he lifted one hand, palm out.  As the two women watched, the toddler's hand began to glow, and soon it was surrounded by a pulsing, white aura of energy.  "Papa teached me," Trunks declared proudly, mistaking the look of horror on his mother's face for awe.  "He won't squish me."

"A-all right, Trunks," Bulma stammered, "Go see him, then."

Kioku stared at Trunks' hand, eyes nearly popping from his head in amazement, then he stuck out his own arm and attempted to imitate.  When he couldn't, the miniature Namekusejin protruded his lower lip, which began to quiver.  "Uh-oh," ChiChi muttered under her breath.  "Here it comes . . ."  As predicted, Kioku began to howl.

"Hey, baby, it's okay," ChiChi rose from her seat and crossed over to him, picking the child up and holding him close, rocking gently.  "Baby, baby, baby . . . you'll learn that someday, I'm sure," she detected the bitterness in her voice when she said that, but couldn't repress it.  "Just be patient."

Kioku pouted, then he buried his face in the juncture between ChiChi's neck and shoulder and gave a little sigh of contentment.  ChiChi nearly melted, and she smiled as she sat down, still holding him.  "You're a good boy, Kioku-chan," she told him, patting his head.  He reached up and curled his fingers in her hair, a gesture that had brought him comfort since the day of his birth.

Trunks was staring in alarm at his friend, who seemed to have lost all interest in playing with him.  Bulma noticed, and she snorted.  "Always the egoist, just like your Dad, huh?" she stood and ruffled Trunks' hair playfully, ignoring the face he pulled at her.  "Go play, squirt.  I'm sure Kioku will come by later."

"Promise?" Trunks demanded arrogantly, arms still folded over his chest.

"Promise," ChiChi interjected, "He's just tired, that's all.  Give him some time to take a nap, then he'll be right out with you."

Trunks considered this, then decided he accepted the excuse.  Giving a short nod, the lavender-haired replica of Vegeta toddled off to find his father.

Once he had gone, ChiChi glanced over at Bulma, who was staring out the window, where the Gravity Trainer could be seen in the back yard.  "You don't want him to fight, either?" she inquired softly.

Bulma shook her head, and her azure eyes glistened with unshed tears.  "Of course not!  Nothing good comes of fighting, no matter how exciting I used to think it was.  Fighting is what made Vegeta who he is," she sighed, obviously not wanting to reveal any of the secrets her 'husband' had told her, but yearning to make ChiChi understand.  "It . . . it turned him from an innocent little kid into a cold-hearted, jaded man who's had everything taken away from him.  He doesn't trust anybody anymore, or if he does, he won't admit it.  I don't want the same thing to happen to Trunks." 

"Look what fighting did to Kioku's father," ChiChi rested her cheek on Kioku's head, marvelling at the softness of his skin.  "According to Gohan, he was born with all _his_ father's memories.  Can you imagine that, Bulma?  A sweet little baby, just like Kioku, with the memories of the deaths of thousands . . . no wonder Piccolo grew up the way he did.  It's so sad."

Kioku babbled incoherently in his sleep, fingers flexing and uncurling like the feet of a happy cat.  Bulma chuckled at the sight, and she cocked her head to one side.  "He still doesn't talk yet?"

ChiChi shook her head, pretending she didn't notice the desperate excuse to change the topic.  "Not really.  I think he has made-up words for things, but I haven't recognized anything yet."

  


"Funny.  Given Dende, I always thought Namekusejins were born talking and able to take care of themselves."

"Not much of an infancy, is it?" ChiChi agreed, smiling down at her adopted son.  "Maybe Piccolo didn't want that, I don't know.  Maybe he wanted his son to have a chance at the childhood he never got."

"Sounds like Piccolo," Bulma frowned, and she set down her mug.  "Speaking of, how's Gohan holding up?  I mean, it's been almost a year now.  Is he any better?"

ChiChi shook her head slowly, and tears sprang to her black eyes.  "No, he still hasn't gotten over it.  I'm worried, Bulma!  My Gohan-chan was such a sweet little boy, and now . . . now he's cold, and bitter, and he won't talk to me or his father.  He won't even look at Kioku, and every time I try to talk to him about it, he says he wishes Kioku had never been born.  I don't know what to do with him!  At first I thought I'd leave him alone and let him come to terms in his own time, but it's been nine months already!  Shouldn't he have begun to move on by then?"

Bulma shrugged, a tiny rise and fall of her shoulders, and she pushed her hair out of her eyes tiredly.  "I wish I could tell you, ChiChi, but I can't.  But . . ." she expelled her breath in a soft sigh.  "You know . . . if I lost Vegeta, I'd never get over it."

"Same if I lost Goku again," ChiChi concurred, "With Piccolo gone, we can't use the Dragonballs anymore.  I don't want to lose him."

"We won't," Bulma spoke up firmly, slamming her mug down on the table so hard that the tea sloshed over the side.  "We've been at peace for almost three years now -- most of the other things that came after us had happened within a year of each other.  I think we're safe this time."

They fell silent, staring into their mugs.  So intent were they that both of them jumped when Kioku spoke up in his sleep.  "To!"

ChiChi blinked a few times in confusion.  "What?"

Kioku squirmed a little, and he yawned, though still not awake.  "Toran," he mumbled.

"Toran?" a turquoise eyebrow lifted as Bulma leaned forward in her chair.  "Is he saying what I think he's saying?"

"What?"

Kioku made a small sound like a cat mewing, then he opened his eyes and sat up, smiling at ChiChi.  "Toran?" he piped up questioningly, holding out his arms.  When ChiChi didn't understand, the toddler grew upset.  "Toran!" he shouted.

Bulma began to laugh, covering her mouth with one hand.  "He is!" she sputtered with amusement and disbelief. "He's trying to say it!"

"Say what?" ChiChi demanded, irked at her own ignorance, "Are you going to tell me, or just sit there laughing at me?"

Kioku hit her shoulder with a tiny fist, still annoyed.  "_Torankusu_!" he yelled finally.

ChiChi's eyes widened.  "Trunks?" she repeated him, and was rewarded by a nod and a set of high-pitched giggles.  "Your first word is -- I don't believe this!  You're Piccolo's kid, all right, you ornery little thing . . . no 'Mama', no 'Papa' . . . Trunks?!"

"Torankusu," Kioku clapped his hands together gleefully, then his expression grew serious as he concentrated on something.

  


"Better watch it," Bulma warned, grinning, "Once Trunks said 'mine!' he figured out how to talk from there.  Just wait -- the kid'll be babbling like a broken record soon."

"...Where . . ." Kioku said slowly, rolling the words around on his tongue carefully, as though just now realizing how words went together.  "Where . . . Torankusu?"

"He's with Bad Man Vegeta," Bulma told him, waggling an 'I told you so' eyebrow at ChiChi.  "You're a smart kid, aren't you, Kioku-chan?  You just had to work out how to make the sounds right."

Kioku squealed appreciatively, and he slid off ChiChi's lap.  "Bai, bai," he waved, flicking his fingers at her.  "Bai, bai!  Torankusu!"

ChiChi sighed and slid down in her seat, throwing up her hands in defeat.  "Yeah, yeah, go see Trunks.  Don't say Mommy or anything . . ."

A chubby finger poked her in the knee, and ChiChi looked down.  Kioku's head was tilted to one side, his face wrinkled in a puzzled frown.  "Ma-ma?" he poked her again, and when he saw her smile, a matching grin lit up his features like a 100-watt lightbulb.  "Mama!"

ChiChi got off the chair and knelt down next to him, where she scooped him up in a huge hug.  "O, you're a darling, Kioku-chan!  You know how to make me feel better, don't you!"

"Mama," was all Kioku said, patting her hair, but after a while he wriggled in her grip and asked, "Torankusu?"

"Yes, go on, you rascal," ChiChi set him down, rubbing a hand across his bald head affectionately.  "You're a good boy, Kioku-chan.  Go play."

Kioku trotted off obediently, but halfway through the door he stopped and pointed at himself, eyebrow ridges raised questioningly.  ChiChi smiled, pointed to him, then enunciated, "Kioku."

He blinked a few times, then tried to repeat. "Kiku?" he scowled, knowing that wasn't right, and ChiChi could tell he was about to pitch a fit.

"Close enough, Kioku," she reassured him, trying very hard not to laugh.  "You're very smart to pick that up.  Kiku's a good nickname for you . . . you certainly do hear everything!"

"Kiku . . ." Kioku chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and flicked one of his antennae.  "Kiku . . . see . . . Torankusu.  Bai, bai, Mama."

"Sentences!" ChiChi exploded after he had gone.  "He goes from no words at all to - to _sentences_!" she chuckled, and massaged her temples with her forefingers.  "I think I'm getting a headache.  He moves too fast for me."

Bulma winked understandingly, and reached across the table to pat ChiChi's hand.  "That's kids for you.  I bet Gohan was the same way."

"He was _born_ talking," ChiChi corrected wryly, mouth twisting up in a crooked grin.  "Or chattering, more like.  By three years old he used to try to explain mathematical equations to Goku and me.  He told me what Piccolo said once . . . something like 'We begin in a gasp and go out with a sigh . . . but you came out talking, and you'll never shut up until you're a big pile of bones underground'.  Insulting, yes, but it's a pretty accurate description of Gohan when he was little."

A dark cloud settled over them at the mention of Piccolo and Gohan.  "I don't know what to do," ChiChi admitted softly.

"Just wait," Bulma offered, "I know that's not much help, but honestly . . . the best healer for all things is time."

"I hope you're right," the dark-haired woman leaned back in her chair, shaking her head slowly.  "I hope you're right."

  


******

"Hey, Piccolo-san," a quiet voice filtered through the leaves of the oak tree.  "How're you doing up there?  I hope you're not bored in the afterlife."

Son Gohan sighed, and leaned back against the wall of the tree house.  He laced his fingers through his hair, tugging on the coarse, black strands until he winced.  "It's been a long time, Piccolo-san . . . nine months, two weeks, and six days.  I'm surprised I'm still alive, sir . . . it's been killing me, to have to spar by myself and everything.  I've missed you telling me to shut up, or smacking me when I tried to hug you," he sniffled, and drew his hand under his nose.

"I'm freaking out," he admitted softly, "Dad tried to touch my hair the other day, like you used to, and I yelled at him.  I don't _mean_ to be rude, but it just happens that way.  I can't handle living without you, Piccolo-san."

The lines of his face tightened, and his soft, boyish features hardened into a face that belonged to someone much older.  "As for your kid . . . I'm sorry I can't love him like I did you, but honestly . . . it would be like if I died, and Mom had another kid, and everyone expected you to pretend he was me.  It's so hard -- he looks just like you, but that doesn't mean he _is _you.  Mom doesn't understand that," Gohan's voice thickened until the words came out almost in a snarl.  "Dad doesn't understand, Grandpa . . . nobody understands.  I know it's been a long time now, but that doesn't make it easier!"

Gohan drew his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his arms.  "I almost killed myself yesterday," he said, voice muffled.  "I powered up, and I had the blast pointed at my chest and everything . . ." he sighed.  "But then I realized I was being weak, just like you always told me not to.  And I knew you'd be mad at me and never talk to me again if I did that . . . so I didn't.  I just have to keep living by myself.  But I can't _take_ this anymore, Piccolo-san!  I _need_ you, I want you back!  I don't want some little baby to take your place; he can't spar with me and insult me and do all the things that you did. I can't . . . I just can't . . ."

Gohan broke off, and he held a hand to his heart, remembering the fire that had seemed to burn there during his illness.  A choked-off sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his lips together firmly.  "I don't mean to be weak, Piccolo-san.  I try to be strong, but it's so hard, I -- everything seems so much different with you not around.  I can't even watch sunsets anymore without crying.  I know that's being a sissy, but I can't help it, really, I can't."

The boy snorted, and, flinging the cape securely around his shoulders, he flew down to the ground.  "I'm gonna' try something, Piccolo-san," he whispered, "But you can't tell anybody.  If it doesn't work, nobody will know, but I hope it does."

He tiptoed into the house, and was gratified to hear snoring coming from the bedrooms.  His Grandpa slept like a log from dusk till dawn, as did his father -- they wouldn't be the problem.  His mother, on the other hand, woke if the tap dripped in the kitchen downstairs.

Instead of walking, Gohan levitated a few inches above the floor until he got to his parents' room, and he stole over to the cradle silently.  _He_ was sleeping -- Gohan refused to acknowledge that Kioku had a name -- and Gohan reached into the cradle and picked him up.  It felt like he was holding a monster, but Gohan repressed a shudder.  Wrapping the toddler in Piccolo's cape, Gohan began to sneak back out of the room.

"Where go?" Kioku's clear voice piped up, and Gohan froze.  He didn't know Kioku could talk!

"Out," he hissed, "But only if you're quiet.  If you aren't, I'm putting you back in bed!"

Kioku nodded solemnly, eyes wide.  "Kiku hush," he clapped both tiny hands over his mouth obediently.

If the kid hadn't been Piccolo's attempted replacement, Gohan would have thought the gesture cute.  It was exactly what he used to do when Piccolo-san told him to be quiet . . .  "Good.  Stay that way until I tell you to."

  


"'Kay," Kioku said through his fingers.

Across the room, Mom stirred in her sleep, then her eyes opened.  Gohan swallowed the swear word he almost said, and covered Kioku's mouth.  "Hello?" Mom murmured sleepily, "Is that you, Gohan?"

"Wh-what?" Dad asked, his words barely intelligible.  "ChiChi . . . what's the matter, hon?"

"I thought I heard something."

"Prob'ly jus' Gohan rolling over or somethin'," Dad mumbled, and he put his arm around Mom, pulling her close.  "G' back to sleep."

Mom shrugged and relaxed, falling asleep soon after.

Gohan released his breath slowly, in a silent sigh of relief.  "Kiku hush good?" Kioku inquired in a stage-whisper, but Gohan ignored him, flying downstairs and out the front door.  Once outside, Gohan began to fly to the top of Mt. Paozu.

"Where go?" Kioku insisted, glancing about him in obvious awe.  His large eyes were wide as he struggled to take in everything at once.  "Gogo, where?"

Gohan grimaced at the child's mispronunciation of his name, but didn't comment.  "Be patient, will you?" he snapped, "You'll see soon enough."

"M'kay," the child seemed content with that answer, and he snuggled close to Gohan, leaning in to the warmth of Gohan's body.

Gohan stiffened, and he held Kioku away from him.  "Don't do that!  If you cuddle up to me again, I'll drop you, and I'm not kidding."

Kioku's small face scrunched up like he was trying not to cry, and he stared up at Gohan with watery eyes.  "Kiku bad?"

"Yeah," Gohan snarled, his lip curling.  "Kiku bad."

"Why?" Kiku jutted out his lower lip in a confused pout, but Gohan refused to be drawn in.  "Kiku not be bad.  Kiku hush good.  Why Gogo mad?  Kiku like Gogo."

"Well, I don't like you, so there you go."

A tear slipped down Kioku's smooth cheek, but Gohan remained unmoved.  He was a little surprised, actually, that he could be so callous toward such a little kid, but things had changed.  Lots of things.  Gohan wasn't the innocent little kid who used to run up to Piccolo-san and give him hugs -- with Piccolo-san's death, something had happened to him.  He was harder now, a wall forming around his heart.  He had let Piccolo-san in, closer than anyone else, and now his best friend was gone.  He wasn't about to do anything to let that happen to him again.

The kid was still crying, and he swiped at his eyes with chubby fingers.  "Kiku not bad," he insisted softly, though Gohan wasn't listening.  "Why Gogo say?  Why . . ." he frowned, trying to find the words.  "Why Gogo . . . mad . . . Kiku?"

This was too much for Gohan.  He jerked to a stop in midair and grabbed Kioku by the scruff of the neck, holding him in the air in front of him.  "Why?  You want to know why?  Because I don't want you.  I want your _Daddy_ back.  Do you understand that?"

Kioku shook his head slowly.  "Papa?  Papa home," he folded his hands and rested his cheek on them, imitating sleep.

  


Rage built up inside Gohan like air filling a balloon, and an energy aura flared up around him as the strain became too great to control.  Kioku squeaked in surprise, but didn't get the chance to comment.  "_My Dad_ is not your Papa!" Gohan shouted, feeling tears prick his eyelids, but the exertion of his ki dried them before they could fall.  "Don't you get it?  My Mom is not your 'Mama', either.  I'm not your brother.  I don't _want_ you to be my brother!"

Kioku's lip quivered, then he lost the battle with his self-control and began to bawl.  "No . . . no . . . Gogo bad!  Gogo say bad!  Kiku want Mama!"

"Too bad," Gohan hoisted the toddler under one arm and resumed his flight, not caring that Kioku was still crying.  The old Gohan never would have sat back and watched a baby cry, much less cause one to, but the old Gohan was gone.  He had been soft-hearted, weak . . . and look where that got him.

_Well, I guess you were right, Piccolo-san,_ Gohan thought grimly,_ I am a sissy.  You were right all along, sir . . . feelings do make you weak.  Well, I'm not going to do that anymore.  I'm smart now._

At last, he reached the top of the mountain.  Touching down lightly, Gohan all but dropped Kioku and glared at him warningly.  "Don't go anywhere.  If you fall, I'm not sure I could catch you in time," Kioku nodded fearfully and clung to Gohan's pant leg, scared out of his crying fit.  "And don't start crying, either."

"No, no. No cry."

Gohan turned away from him then, fixing his gaze on the sky.  His father had a mild talent for telepathy, explaining it as a Saiyajin thing, and this trait had been passed down to Gohan.  His mental bond with Piccolo had only strengthened the technique, and Gohan had spent time fine-tuning his telepathic abilities.  Now, he closed his eyes and concentrated.  "Kaio-sama?" he called.

_What?_ came the voice in his mind, and Gohan smiled triumphantly.  _Son Gohan, is that you?_

"Yeah, it's me.  Can you do me a favour?"

_Depends on what it is, son.  What's up?_

"I want you to bring Piccolo-san back to Earth."

An undignified squawk was Kaio-sama's response as the martial arts master nearly choked.  _Gohan, I can't do that!  He's dead, remember?  It's not like he's here on vacation._

"So what?  Contact the Namekusejins and tell them to get Porunga to wish him back."

Kaio-sama sighed, and Gohan's heart froze.  What was the problem now?  _Gohan . . . I'm sorry.  Piccolo died of a disease -- that's a natural cause, and not even Porunga can wish back someone who died of natural causes.  I'm really sorry._

"I know," Gohan opened his eyes and looked down at Kioku, who was lying on his back, staring up at the stars with rapt fascination.  "But can't you ask him to make a trade?  I've got his kid here, Kaio-sama; can't you take him instead and bring Piccolo-san back?  You know the _Shunkanidou_ technique, so it wouldn't be hard.  You could just come here, get the kid, go to heaven, get Piccolo-san, and make the trade.  Right?"

A lengthy pause ensued, during which Gohan counted his heartbeats in an approximation of how long it lasted.  Ten heartbeats later, Kaio-sama slowly replied, _I can't do that, either.  It isn't that simple.  Piccolo is _dead_, Gohan.  I can't just take his child to heaven instead.  They'd both be dead if that happened, and I don't think that's what you want.  I think you should just learn to accept it, son.  I'm really sorry._

"Yeah," Gohan tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat prevented him.  "Me, too.  Well, never mind, then."

  


The connection was broken, and Gohan was once more alone on the mountaintop.  Acrid tears of disappointment welled up in his eyes and began to trickle down his face, his eyes stinging.  "Come on, kid, we're leaving," he announced, but only soft, infant snoring answered him.  Gohan sighed in frustration and picked Kioku up, tucking him under one arm as the child continued to sleep.  "Let's go back home," he shook his head, and before he flew away, Gohan threw one last look at the blazing sky above.  "I tried, Piccolo-san.  I'm sorry."

Kioku was still sleeping when Gohan placed him back in his cradle and reluctantly covered him with a blanket. A heavy weight settled upon Gohan's shoulders, and he felt guilty all of a sudden -- the same kind of feeling he got when he would turn around to find Piccolo-san glaring disapprovingly at him, and Gohan had to remind himself not to glance over his shoulder.  Piccolo-san didn't need to be there in the physical plane for Gohan to know when his _sensei_ would have scolded him for something.

_What did you think you were doing?_ Gohan could almost hear Piccolo's voice ringing accusingly.  _That's my son, and you tried to kill him!  I didn't go through all that trouble just so you could try to send the kid right back where he came from._

Gohan's face crumpled as he again went through the futile motions of holding back tears, and the hot, salty liquid spilled over down his cheeks.  "Piccolo-san," Gohan whispered brokenly, "I didn't mean to . . . I didn't realize that I'd . . ." he stared at the slumbering toddler, who was completely oblivious to what had almost happened to him.  "I didn't think that he would die if Kaio-sama took him away.  I didn't want him to die, I just wanted you back . . . I know he's your kid and I should protect him, but every time I see him, I feel like I'm losing you all over again!  How much more of this can I take before I explode, Piccolo-san?"

But there was no answer.  Gohan sighed softly, knowing he had only imagined the voice, and without thinking, he reached out a hand.  Slowly, tentatively, Gohan stroked Kioku's forehead with his fingers, gently brushing the child's antennae away from his face.  "I'm sorry, Kioku," Gohan whispered, calling the infant by name for the first time.  "I don't think I'll ever love you, but . . . for Piccolo-san's sake, I won't hate you anymore.  Okay?  How's that?"

Kioku stirred in his sleep, mumbling something about 'Torankusu', and he flailed his hands about for a few seconds in an unconscious stretch.  Gohan's eyes widened as Kioku's hand latched onto his index finger, and the infant drew Gohan's hand close to his chest, snuggling up to his arm.  "Hey!" Gohan hissed, "Let go!" 

The child didn't hear him, and he continued to slumber peacefully.  Gohan realized there was no way to extricate himself without waking Kioku up and probably his parents as well, so he blew out his breath in defeat.  Hooking a chair leg with his foot, Gohan dragged the piece of furniture over to himself and sat down, resting his arms on the edge of the cradle.  "Silly kid," he murmured, and dropped off to sleep.

******

ChiChi yawned lazily and opened her eyes, feeling the warm sunlight creeping in through the window.  She smiled a little as she noticed Goku's arm around her waist, and she was about to cuddle up against him when something caught her gaze.  "Goku!" ChiChi cried in an excited whisper, elbowing her husband in the stomach.  "Goku, look!"

"Mmph -- what?" Goku muttered, opening one eye cautiously.  "Aw, ChiChi, it's still early!"

ChiChi rolled her eyes, and she slapped his chest lightly.  "_Look_, you dolt!  Look at Gohan and Kioku!"

Goku narrowed his eyes in an attempt to focus his bleary, half-asleep vision, then his eyes widened.  "Wha -- are you sure that's Gohan?  What the heck happened?"

  


Gohan sat on a chair next to the cradle, his head pillowed on his arms.  One hand rested inside the cradle, and Gohan's index finger was gripped by four tiny, green ones.  Kioku's small face was lit by a brilliant smile, even as he slept . . . and Gohan?  Gohan was not smiling, and no hint of affection touched his features -- but gone was the hatred that had twisted his childlike face for the past nine months.  His face was bereft of the hard, taut lines that had all but erased the youthful softness from his features, and a kind of calm neutrality had replaced the pain.  For the first time in nine months, Gohan seemed at peace.

"Finally," Goku breathed, drawing ChiChi close to him in a relieved embrace.  "I think he's gonna' be okay."

ChiChi smiled and leaned in close to Goku's warmth, still watching her son sleep.  "I think so too, Goku."

The dark-haired woman shot a glance out the window, where a sparrow was fluttering on the windowsill, fluffing its wings and chirping.  _I hope you can see this, wherever you are, Piccolo,_ she thought, _Our Gohan has learned to trust again.  He hasn't forgotten you; don't worry about that . . . but he isn't killing himself over you anymore.  I think he'll be able to love your son, in time.  I still thank you for giving him life, Piccolo -- and now, I think he's finally ready to thank you, too._

"C'mon, Goku," ChiChi nudged Goku again.  "Time to get up.  Breakfast."

"BREAKFAST?"

******

Far away, in the dimension commonly referred to as the "Other World," an elfin-eared, green-skinned figure smiled.

******

So there you have it. I realize there wasn't much action or whatnot in this chapter, but I decided I had to write how everyone -- namely Gohan -- sorted out their lives after Piccolo's death, and I wanted to give the readers an idea of Kioku's character before jumping straight into the drama. So I guess this chapter would fit in the "angst/general" section, then. 

Ah, yes. "Kiku" is the verb "to hear, to listen." I figured that was a good nickname for Kioku, because a.) it's easier for the li'l tyke to say, and b.) little kids do hear everything! 

Another note: In case you didn't know (not likely, but hey!) "Deeper Than Colour" comes from a quote from Piccolo to Gohan. While waiting for Goku to return from Yardrat, Gohan inquired as to why Piccolo didn't return to Neo-Namekusei with the other Namekusejins, and Piccolo replied that the Earth had become his home. He said that "connections between people run deeper than where they're from or what colour skin they have," and I liked that quote. I thought it fit this story nicely, with Kioku having to become part of the Son family when he is obviously of a different race. 

Last note: I'm not sure when the next chapter will be out -- this is the first time I've ever posted a story I haven't finished writing. But I wanted the readers to have more say in this one -- so I'm open to suggestions. Hint for the next chapter: Kioku's 1st birthday, May 12th. Does that particular date ring a bell? It should -- think Mirai timeline. Uh-oh . . . what will happen at Kioku's birthday brunch? Stay tuned and find out! 

Okay, so maybe that wasn't the last note -- this one is for Cat, who reviewed INGTLY: I realize Gohan reacted to Kioku in exactly the way you said for him not to, but I think I explained it well enough to make it believable . . . hopefully. And he did change his mind at the end. Tell me if it still was out of character, all right? Thanks! 

And no, everyone, the rest of the chapters will not have as many author's notes. *Whew!* 


	2. Blood and Icing

Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. But hey, Christmas is around the corner . . . so if any of you want to get me something . . . *hint hint* (Ha, ha . . . I wish!) 

A/N: Sorry it's so late, but this chapter was a long one, plus with Christmas coming up everything has been really hectic around here and I haven't had nearly as much writing time as I've wanted. I hope it was worth the wait for you guys! 

(Many thanks, btw, to the group "Project 86" -- I was listening to their CD "Self-Titled" when I wrote Vegeta's transformation. It makes awesome background music!) 

Warning: Rated R. This is the only chapter rated R as of now, but I can't make promises for later, so I've changed the rating of the story. This chapter contains, in my opinion, the most gruesome deaths of the Z-senshi that I've written so far. If anyone finds extreme violence offensive, I suggest you read the beginning and end and skip the middle, keeping in mind that this is a Mirai timeline-type story (ie., the jinzouningen kill pretty much everyone). 

All warnings given, on to the story! 

Deeper Than Colour

**Chapter Two: Blood and Icing**

"Happy birthday, Kiokuuuuu, Happy birthday to youuuuu!" sang the small crowd loudly, especially a turquoise-haired young woman.  Arms flung wide and head thrown back, Bulma crowed the tune with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than musical affinity.

"Woman!" Vegeta thundered when the song was over, removing his hands from their position over his ears.  "You sound like a drowning animal!  Do us all a favour and never sing again!"

"Yeah, babe," Yamucha laughed, wincing, "Maybe you oughta' lay off a little."

Vegeta rounded on the dark-haired human and raised a threatening hand.  "Don't speak to her like that or I'll rip your intestines out!"

Bulma, impervious to the criticism, just laughed and rolled her eyes.  "Kioku likes my singing, don't you, Kioku-chan?"

The object of her question and the centre of the party, the one-year-old Nameksejin, smiled unconvincingly, showing his small but gleaming fangs.  "Yes, Bulma-san," he reassured her, silently wondering if he was ever going to hear again.  He knew he could regenerate — Papa had told him — and the child briefly entertained the idea of ripping off his ears and growing them back later.

"Kioku lying, Mama," came a matter-of-fact voice from beside him, and Kioku laughed.  Trunks-kun was six months older, and though he was a little on the sarcastic side, he and Kioku were the best of friends.  "Papa right."

Everyone ignored the snorted "Of course I'm right!," focussing instead on ChiChi, Kioku's Mom, as she came out from the kitchen, stumbling beneath the weight of an enormous cake.

"Little help here?" the woman pleaded, her knees buckling, and her husband was at her side instantly, practically salivating as he took the confectionary delight from her and set it on the table.  "Thanks, Goku-sa," Mama smiled, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Ew," Trunks-kun scoffed, moving close to Kioku to whisper in his ear.  "Your Mama and Papa getting kissy."

"No, no," Kioku hissed back, "_Trunks-kun's_ Mama and Papa kissy.  Not Kiku's.  'Member?"

His friend burst into a fit of hastily-suppressed giggles as he thought back to the time when he and Kioku had walked in on Bulma and Vegeta kissing.  The two toddlers had erupted with laughter, yelling "EWWWWW!!!" at the top of their lungs, before being chased out of the house by an enraged Saiyajin Prince.

Kioku began rolling on the couch with laughter, and he leaned against Trunks-kun in hysterics.  The two of them chortled away to themselves for a few more minutes, before realizing that everyone was staring at them, amused expressions on their faces.  "Hi," Kioku chirruped brightly, "What?"

"Are you going to make a wish, or not?" Mama inquired, smiling down at him.  "Make a wish, then blow out the candles."

The tiny Nameksejin scrambled off the couch and trotted across the room to the table, where he made a disgusted face — the top of the table was nearly two feet above his head.  Yamucha-san noticed his dilemma and laughed, and the human got down on his hands and knees, providing an impromptu stool for the diminutive toddler.  Kioku giggled and clambered up onto Yamucha-san's back, where he could finally see above the table.

  


Kioku stared at the gigantic cake with two candles burning merrily in the centre, and he broke out into a gigantic grin, shooting a grateful smile at Mama.  Kioku screwed his eyes shut, thinking hard, then a grin split his face when he thought of the perfect wish.

_Kiku wish_, he thought, _That Gogo won't be sad.  Then Kiku can be happy._

Gohan, or 'Gogo', was Kioku's brother.  Ever since Kioku could remember, Gogo didn't smile very much, though over the last three months he had gotten better.  Kioku knew that Gogo was still sad because of the death of someone named Piccolo, Kioku's _real_ father, who had died when Kioku was born.  Gogo had told Kioku a lot about Papa Pic'o-san (as Kioku called him); a few days ago, the little Nameksejin had shown interest in his birth father, and Gogo had reluctantly begun to talk.

_"He was a good man," Gohan said slowly, his eyes brimming with tears.  "He's my best friend, Kioku.  He . . . he saved my life so many times, and he was always there for me.  You don't understand 'cause you're too young, but . . . Piccolo-san is everything to me.  I never thought I'd have to be without him."_

_Kioku nodded solemnly, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from his adoptive brother, and he watched as that _look_ came over Gohan's face again.  The one where his sadness seemed to melt away, and a humongous smile crossed his face.  "I remember one time," Gohan laughed, "Piccolo-san knocked me into a river, and I started to get swept downstream, but he caught me.  He pulled me out . . . of course, he started yelling at me for being stupid enough to fall in, but I didn't notice that part.  Or once, I invited him to my birthday party . . . I thought he was gonna' die of shock!"_

_Kioku giggled.  "Gogo miss Papa Pic'o-san, huh?" he guessed._

_The mask slid down over Gohan's features again, and he became the quiet, withdrawn boy once more.  "Yeah, Kioku.  I miss him.  A lot."_

At first, Gogo hadn't wanted anything to do with Kioku, but gradually, especially lately, he had come to accept him more.  Not much, but at least it was something.  Now, Kioku opened his eyes, sent Gogo a small, private smile, then blew out the candles.  Everyone clapped and cheered, and Kioku jumped off of Yamucha-san's back.  

"CAKE TIME!!!" Papa roared exuberantly, diving for the dessert, but the air in front of him blurred and coalesced into Vegeta-san, who blocked his path.

"You aren't getting all the cake, Kakarotto," the Saiyajin Prince lifted an eyebrow, holding back his struggling comrade without any difficulty.  "Even _I_ know you have to let the brat eat first — it's his birthday, stupid.  And then it's _my_ turn."

Papa stopped his headlong rush and grinned sheepishly, one hand to the back of his head.  "Oops," he laughed, causing everyone in the room to burst into peals of laughter.

Kioku chuckled, and he and Trunks-kun rolled their eyes at their respective fathers.  They were so funny . . .

Across the room, curled up in the corner of the couch, sat Son Gohan.  The ten-year-old sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, watching everyone as they joked and carried on, completely oblivious to the _other_ anniversary that the day represented.

One year ago, minutes before Kioku's birth, Piccolo-san had died.  Died in the action of saving Gohan's life.  What had followed was an entire year of intense loneliness, and pain so great that Gohan almost hadn't been able to take it, on several occasions.  Pain, bitterness, anger, depression . . . all of them emotions that Gohan, a happy-go-lucky child, had not been used to feeling.

And now, merely a year later, everyone seemed to have forgotten.

"Hey, Gohan.  How's it hanging?"

  


Gohan's head snapped around and he saw Kuririn, his father's best friend, standing by the sofa.  "Hi, Kuririn," he smiled wanly and extended a hand, indicating that his friend could sit down.  "I guess I'm okay."

Kuririn sat beside him and slung a companionable arm around Gohan's shoulders.  "You're still thinking about Piccolo, aren't you?" he inquired softly, and an understanding smile crossed the human's face when Gohan nodded.  "You're allowed to mourn, Gohan," Kuririn reminded him, "Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't."

"I know," Gohan found his eyes were watering, and he sniffled miserably, wiping his face on his sleeve.  "I wish he was here.  Everything's so different without him," Kuririn squeezed his shoulders encouragingly, and Gohan sighed.  "Piccolo-san, he . . . he was my best friend, and . . . almost like another father.  Sometimes he was around even more than Dad, just because Dad was always off training somewhere.  And now . . ." he screwed his eyes tightly shut, pressing his fists against his eyelids.  ". . . it's like nobody remembers him at all."

"Of course we remember him!" Kuririn countered, "He's saved _all_ our lives, not just yours!  None of us were anywhere near as close to him as you, but we still miss him."

"Everybody took his death pretty well," Gohan remarked caustically, shrugging off Kuririn's arm and shrinking farther back into the corner of the sofa.  "Nobody cried at his funeral or anything."

Kuririn shook his head slowly, a look on his face that was halfway between pity and exasperation.  "We all tried to be strong for you, that's all.  And I'll tell you one thing — both your parents cried."

Gohan's eyes widened, and he glanced across the room at his parents.  ChiChi was in the process of cutting the cake, and Goku had his arms around her waist, trying to soften her up so she would let him eat the dessert himself.  ChiChi finally elbowed Goku in the ribs, and he let go, pouting.  They didn't look sad at all.  "Are you just trying to make me feel better?" Gohan demanded, "'Cause I hate when people do that.  It makes me feel even worse."

"I'm serious!" Kuririn protested, "I wouldn't lie to you.  I swear I wouldn't."

"Gogo want cake?" Kioku interrupted them, toddling over to Gohan with a gigantic slice of cake on a plate.  "Kiku not eat, so Gogo have Kiku's piece?"

The toddler's grin was so infectious that Gohan felt himself start to smile back in spite of himself.  "Sure, I'll have your piece."

Kioku beamed at him and held out the plate.  The kid was wearing a goofy hat that resembled a jester's cap, courtesy of Yamucha, and the ridiculousness of it all made Gohan burst out laughing.  Kuririn glanced at him in surprise, for he hadn't heard Gohan express any lighthearted emotion in a year.

Gohan's eyes narrowed as he regarded his dessert, which had two candles stuck in the icing.  "Hey, kid?"

"Yep?"

"You're only a year old — so why are there two candles?"

Kioku broke into a grin that was so broad it almost looked like the boy was related to Goku by blood.  "Kiku ask Mama to do that.  One candle for Kiku, one candle for Papa Pic'o-san.  So Gogo see Kiku not forget."

The demi-Saiyajin was floored, and he sat, mouth wide open and eyes nearly protruding from his face.  "Kioku . . . how . . ."

Kioku smiled sweetly, and he clambered onto the couch.  Kuririn took Gohan's cake and scooted over to give the kid room, and the pint-sized Nameksejin crawled up into Gohan's lap, cuddling against him.  Gohan was still too startled to react.  "Gogo love Papa Pic'o-san . . . so Kiku love Papa Pic'o-san, too," he glanced up at Gohan, and raised his eyebrow ridges in bewilderment at Gohan's lack of response.  "Gogo not like?"

  


"No, Kioku," Gohan's throat tightened painfully, and he felt tears pricking his eyelids.  "No, I like it a lot.  Thanks," without warning, Gohan picked Kioku up and hugged him.  It was a little awkward, since it had been so long since Gohan had hugged anyone, but he didn't care.

Kioku, meanwhile, was stunned out of his mind.  He had never seen Gohan hug anybody  —  not Mama, not Papa, not Kuririn-san . . . nobody  —  and certainly not Kioku!  Gohan had stopped yelling at him all the time, but he'd never come any where close to this.  The one-year-old wasn't sure how to react, so he did the only thing he could think of; he hugged back, placing his small arms around Gohan's neck and resting his cheek on his shoulder.  Gohan's body shivered, and Kioku wondered if his brother was crying.  He frowned, because he didn't think anything had happened to make Gohan sad, but then . . . Gohan cried a lot whenever Papa Pic'o-san was mentioned.

"Kiku love Gogo," Kioku declared in a confidential whisper, and he placed a somewhat wet kiss on Gohan's cheek.

Across the room, Goku paused in devouring his cake as the scene caught his eye.  "ChiChi, look!" he called quietly, his face covered in icing and chocolate crumbs.  "He's . . . he's hugging him!"

Everyone in the room heard, and all turned to watch (including Trunks, who muttered, "Ew, mushy stuff!").  Gohan noticed, but he didn't care — somehow, he felt warm, and . . . and safe.  It was exactly how he felt during those rare occasions when Piccolo-san didn't shove him away if he hugged him.  Oddly enough, he got the distinct impression that Piccolo-san was in the room with him.

_Close enough.  _

Gohan felt a rush of warmth spread through him as the mental bond that had been so long vacant was finally filled once more.  "Piccolo-san?" he stammered aloud, causing the occupants of the room to glance at him in confusion.

_Hey kid.  It's been a year,_ Piccolo-san sounded uncharacteristically pleased with himself.  _I'm allowed to talk to you for a couple minutes, since it's my kid's birthday and all.  I was supposed to talk to him, but I said that he doesn't even know who I am, and I'd rather talk to you._

Gohan smiled broadly, and he brushed at his eyes.  "I've missed you," he admitted, but he was too excited to hear his _sensei_'s voice to feel bitter over his death.

_I bet you have_, Piccolo-san's voice changed into a much sterner tone.  _But Kaio-sama says you tried to trade my kid for me a couple months ago.  What the heck was that, Gohan?  I know you miss me, but I always thought you were stronger than that._

The boy hunched his shoulders guiltily, ducking his head, almost seeing Piccolo-san frowning at him.  "I know, and I'm sorry.  He just reminded me of you too much.  But I like him a lot better now."

_That's good.  It's been a year, you know.  Life moves on.  You can't live in the past — I should know that one._  A noise carried through Gohan's mind that sounded like Piccolo-san had let out a sigh.  _I want you to do something for me, Gohan._

"Anything!"

_Stop crying for me._  Gohan's head snapped up in surprise, but Piccolo-san's voice overrode any protests he was about to make.  _I'm dead, kid.  I'm sorry, but I am.  Bitterness and anger won't bring me back, no matter how much you want it.  I wish I could come back, I really do — it's hard sitting up here all by myself twenty-four hours a day, and I miss sparring and talking with you like crazy, but there's nothing we can do.  I took that virus on for you so that you could live, but if you spend the rest of your life in mourning, it's like you died right along with me.  That's why I left my kid with you — so you would have someone to talk to after I'm gone.  I gave you life, Gohan — don't waste it.  Life is precious.  It took me years to realize that; don't make my mistake._

  


"I'm sorry," Gohan whispered, ignoring everyone's curious stares.  "You're right, sir . . . as always.  I - I'll be okay now," he brightened, smiling through his tears.  "Your kid looks a lot like you."

_Poor him,_ Piccolo-san snorted with sarcastic amusement.  _I hope he doesn't grow up scarred . . . But listen to me; I've got to go now, but remember something for me.  When I spat out that kid, some of my consciousness stayed with him. When you talk to him, it's almost like talking to me.  And you know what?  If you hug him, I can feel it.  All right?  You got me, Gohan?  You'll never have to be alone._

Gohan grinned crazily, and he caught up a startled Kioku in an enthusiastic embrace.  "You feel that, Piccolo-san?"

Piccolo-san's dry chuckles affirmed Gohan's question, and all of a sudden it felt as though two strong arms were encircling him.  _Yeah, I feel that.  Don't freak the kid out, though.  He'll probably wonder why you're hugging him all the time when before you never even talked to him._

The black-haired demi-Saiyajin laughed sheepishly, one hand behind his head.  "Yeah.  I'll never forget you, Piccolo-san."

_Darn right you won't!  Make me a promise — when you die, whenever that is, I want you to swear that you won't have given up training.  I'm not waiting in heaven for eternity just so you can show up and be a pushover when we spar._

Gohan started to salute when he remembered Piccolo-san couldn't see him, so he just laughed again.  "Yes, sir!  I'll grow up to be real strong for you, okay?"

_Good.  Well, time's up.  Miss ya', you half-breed freak._

"I'll miss _you_, green-skinned alien," Gohan hugged Kioku one last time.  "'Bye, Piccolo-san.  I love you!"

_Feh.  I'd say 'ditto' if I didn't know you were gonna' get that goofy grin on your face.  See you on the other side, kid._

Gradually, Gohan became aware that all conversation in the room had halted, and everyone was regarding him warily, as though he had finally snapped and gone insane.  "Gohan-chan?" ChiChi asked timidly.  "Are you all right?"

"Piccolo-san talked to me!" Gohan exclaimed happily, "He said they let him talk to me because it's been a year now."

Goku tilted his head to one side thoughtfully, then he smiled broadly, crossing the room to clap his son on the back.  "I'm glad, son.  Are you all right now?"

"Yeah," Gohan sobered up, and he looked at each of his friends in turn.  "I'm sorry I've been so mean to you guys. Piccolo-san told me I don't have to cry over him anymore, so I'm going to try to be me again.  I'm okay now."

Kioku clapped his hands ecstatically, and he jumped down to the floor.  "Yay!" he proclaimed, with childlike enthusiasm.  "Gogo all better!  Kiku's wish is good!  It worked!"

At that moment, every ki-sensitive person in the room clutched his head, wincing as thousands of life energies disappeared or reduced significantly.  "What the heck was that?" Kuririn burst out, "A whole bunch of people just died!  Is it an attack?"

Gohan's eyes widened in fear, and he — and everyone else — instantly turned to Goku for answers.  "I don't think so.  I can't sense any negative energy, so it couldn't be an attack.  Probably some industrial building collapsed or something."

"Yeah, I bet you're right," Yamucha agreed, looking relieved.  The rest of the group (minus Vegeta) let out a collective sigh of relief.  "You guys wanna' go look for survivors, then?"

"Might as well," Tenshinhan nodded, glancing at his companion.  "What do you say, Chaozu?"

  


"Sure," the diminutive telepath piped up, smiling.

Goku turned to ChiChi and raised his eyebrows, and Gohan recognized the expression as one that indicated Goku knew he was about to be chastised.  "Uh, ChiChi?  Do you mind if we leave for a bit?  It shouldn't take long if we're just combing the wreckage for survivors."

ChiChi glared at him, staring him down until her husband looked away, defeated.  Once it was clear she had established her victory, ChiChi chucked Goku under the chin, shaking her head.  "Go on, Goku.  Kioku's party can wait, right, Kioku-chan?"

"Kiku like Papa to help hurt people," Kioku nodded vehemently.  "Kiku can wait with Trunks-kun and Gogo."

"What?" Gohan expostulated, "Kioku, I was gonna' go with Dad!"

ChiChi turned to him and planted her hands on her hips, giving him her famous "I-don't-think-so" stare.  "Gohan, stay with your brother.  Your father and your friends are perfectly capable of digging out survivors by themselves.  Maybe if it were a battle I'd let you go, but I think you should stay here."

"Please?" Kioku tugged on Gohan's pant leg, leaning his head on Gohan's knee and staring up at him imploringly, eyes wide.  "Please, Gogo?  Play with Kiku and Trunks-kun?"

"Yeah," Trunks added, coming up to them and resting his elbow on Kioku's head.  "Play with us.  Teach us fighting stuff!"

Gohan sent a wounded glance at his father at the same time that ChiChi shot her husband a warning look.  Confused, Goku looked back and forth from his son to his wife before finally coming to stand beside ChiChi, putting an arm around her shoulders.  "Hey, Gohan, I think Mom's right this time.  We won't really need you."

The boy sighed gustily, and he rolled his eyes.  "All right, all right.  I'll stay with the kids."

"Yahoo!" Trunks crowed, and he and Kioku pounced on Gohan's back, eliciting a rather out-of-breath "Oof!" and laughter from everyone else.

"C'mon, we'll use the _Shunkanidou_," Goku declared, and the others crowded close around him so they could grab hold of his arms.  "It'll be quicker," he cocked an eyebrow at Vegeta.  "You coming?  Or is saving people too much of a bother for the Prince of Saiyajins?"

Vegeta crossed his arms indignantly, but Bulma covered her mouth and let out a loud cough that sounded remarkably like, "_Couch_!"  Vegeta's eyes widened, and he strode across the room to stand beside Goku, gripping his collar.  "I'm coming," he growled, "But don't make any cracks or I'll kill you."

"Right," Goku chuckled, "We know," frowning, he placed his two index fingers to his forehead, and the entire group shimmered and disappeared.

"Well, shoot," Gohan muttered, but he didn't have time to complain before he was mauled by a pair of boys, tugging at his clothing excitedly and shouting for him to teach them how to control their ki.  Despite his annoyance, Gohan had to laugh.  "Okay, tigers, let's go outside so we don't blow up the house."

"And _we'll_ eat all the cake," Bulma giggled, hooking her arm through ChiChi's.  "Let's go, ChiChi!  There's a lot of food to get rid of before the guys get back."

Laughing, Gohan and his two new students ran outside to start their training.

******

  


The wind whistled through the streets of South City, whipping dust, papers, garbage, and scraps of fabric through the empty town.  Large commercial buildings were cracked and broken, and most of them had toppled.  Bodies littered the roads, lying in the wreckage, and some hung limply out of windows.  All in all, it was the perfect image of a holocaust — but there was no evidence of any attackers.

"I don't like this," Yamucha murmured, casting his gaze about the desolate streets.  "What the heck happened here?"

"It looks like an earthquake hit, but we would've felt one this big," Kuririn added, likewise keeping his voice soft.  No one knew why they felt compelled to whisper, but something made it seem like an injustice to speak loudly.

"There's no life energy anywhere," Tenshinhan observed with his typical rationality.  Chaozu was clinging to his leg in fright, and he rested a comforting hand on his friend's head.  "Not one person survived, whatever happened."

"Of course.  We made sure of that.  Can't leave things undone now, can we?"

Everyone spun around at the sound of a male voice, calm and perfectly modulated — so much so that it almost sounded artificial.  On top of the remains of what had once been a large semi truck, stood a slim, human figure dressed in jeans, a black shirt, and a bright red-orange bandana, with shoulder-length black hair and piercing blue eyes.  He looked like a teenage boy, but something about his expressionless face and the way he held himself, made it seem as though he wasn't human.

Beside him, perched on the windshield with her elbows propped on her knees and her chin in her hands, was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who resembled the boy almost exactly.  She wore a denim vest and skirt over a black shirt and leggings.  Her facial expression revealed extreme boredom.

"Who are you?" Goku demanded, stepping forward.  "What have you done to this city?"

"We are _jinzouningen_," the boy explained.  "I am #17, and my sister is #18.  And I think it is perfectly obvious what we have done to this city — we have destroyed it.  We were looking for you, actually . . . Son Goku."

Some of the others gasped in surprise, but Goku didn't flinch.  "If that's supposed to startle me, it didn't.  Everybody seems to know who I am, and none of them have been friendly," he frowned, crossed his arms over his chest.  "If you are _jinzouningen_, who made you?"

"Dr. Gero," #17's lip curled in derisive hatred, the first sign of emotion so far.  "But don't worry about him.  He has been . . . taken care of."

"#17, just shut up," #18 spoke up, "If we're going to fight, then let's fight.  We've wasted enough time in blasting this city.  We should have gone straight to Son Goku's house as soon as Gero was gone."

Goku dropped into fighting stance, watching out the corner of his eyes as his friends did likewise.  Only Vegeta remained unmoved, arms crossed, a look of arrogant detachment creasing the lines of his face.  "We don't have to do this," Goku warned, "I don't want to fight you.  It's not necessary.  This is a beautiful planet, and her inhabitants haven't done anything to you.  There is no logical reason for you to kill everyone."

One black eyebrow lifted.  "Of course there is.  It's fun."

"It's fun _if_ you actually start killing people and shut _up_," #18 retorted, "Come on!  Let's get on with it!"

Yajirobe gripped the butt of his sword tightly in his fist, then he backpedalled rapidly.  "I'm getting outta' here!" he shouted, "I couldn't help you guys anyhow, and I don't wanna' die!  'Bye!" he pulled out a capsule from his pocket, throwing it on the ground and jumping into the jet that appeared.

  


For once, no one scoffed at the samurai for leaving.  Goku glanced at his comrades.  "Listen, guys, maybe you'd leave, too.  I don't want you to get hurt, okay?"

"You've gotta' be nuts, Goku!" Kuririn expostulated, "We're not leaving you!  We're fighting with you."

"No kiddin'," Yamucha added vehemently.  "You think we're just gonna' abandon you like that, Goku?  You must be crazy!"

The ground shook as Yajirobe's jet took off into the air, and the two _jinzouningen_ watched, apparently without interest.  At last, #18 got to her feet in one graceful, catlike motion.  "You don't want to fight us, then?" she asked, addressing Goku.  "Well, then, fine.  We'll make you."

She raised an arm, index finger extended, and a pencil-thin beam of light shot from the end of it.  Two seconds later, Yajirobe's jet exploded in a flash of light, only the cockpit remaining, and the rubble plummeted down to the ground with a tremendous crash.  Smoke poured from the wreckage, filling the air with the acrid smell of cauterized metal and burned flesh.

"_Yajirobe_!" Goku shouted, the pitch of his voice escalating up toward the panic level.  The reluctant fighter had not been one of Goku's closer acquaintances, but he was, nonetheless, a friend.  He spun on his heel and faced the two artificial humans, both of whom had evil grins on their faces.  The typical Goku-like smile had dropped from his face, replaced by an expression of rage, and deadly seriousness.  It was a look the Saiyajin only got when he was prepared to fight — to the death.

"All right," he growled, his voice low.  "I didn't want to fight you, but I have to now.  You can't threaten my planet and kill my friends and get away with it!"

Hands ready in fighting stance, Goku disappeared, then reappeared in front of the _jinzouningen_. #18 nodded shortly at #17, who blocked Goku's advance with an arm flung in front of his face, and the fight began.

Blow after blow were exchanged with lightning-fast frequency, neither side winning, neither losing.  Goku fought with grim determination, phasing in and out as he darted around his opponent with super speed, but every time he moved the android was right in front of him again.  A fist lashed out, seemingly out of nowhere, catching Goku in the jaw and flinging him backwards.  Blood poured from a new gash in Goku's lip.

#17 smirked.  "You aren't giving up, are you?  My, my.  That's too bad."

"I'm not giving up yet!" Goku gritted angrily.  He flew in behind #17 and hooked an arm around the _jinzouningen_'s throat.  During the half-second of surprise, Goku drilled his knee into #17's back, at the same time yanking back on the cyborg's neck.  His opponent let out a yell of shock and pain, and Goku allowed himself a tight smile.

The next second, Goku was flying sideways into the remains of a building.  Jagged cement dug into his back, and the Saiyajin winced.  A pair of leather boots met his downward gaze, then he was grabbed by the hair, his face yanked up.  #18 looked down at him, glaring.

"You got lucky," she decreed, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder, where her brother was staggering to his feet.  "But I'm not as cocky as #17 is."

This proclamation was followed by a vicious knee to the stomach, and Goku spat out blood.  "Goodbye," #18 called, almost in a singsong voice, and she shoved a hand roughly against his chest.  A loud whine filled the air as her hand began to glow, then a blast formed at her fingertips and flew straight into Goku's chest.

"_Goku!  No_!" he heard Kuririn scream, then his vision faded and he was overtaken by blackness.

  


Yamucha watched in horror as Goku toppled to the ground, unconscious.  Kuririn flew to his side, cradling the Saiyajin's head in his arms and crying.  "He's still alive, you guys," Yamucha reassured Chaozu, who had burst into tears.  He looked at Tenshinhan, and the fellow warrior's eyes narrowed in affirmation.  "All right, let's do it!"

"Stay here, Chaozu," Tenshinhan ordered, "I don't want you getting hurt.  Anything happens to me, I want you out of here."

"But Tenshinhan C"

"I mean it, Chaozu!  Stay here!"

Chaozu nodded reluctantly, and his eyes shimmered with tears.  "Be careful, Ten-san."

The three-eyed human offered a brief smile, though it was more of a reflex action than one of genuine comfort.  "Yeah.  I will."

Yamucha and Tenshinhan flew at the pair of artificial humans, intending to take them both on at once, but at the last second, the _jinzouningen_ split up.  The humans halted in the air for a split-second, then conferred in biting tones as to who would take on whom.  It was quickly decided that Yamucha would fight #17, since #18 appeared to be the more dangerous and Tenshinhan was the stronger of the two.

It was soon evident that it didn't matter who was the more dangerous; both _jinzouningen_ were deadly.  Yamucha discovered this after being smashed in the face three times in rapid succession, breaking his nose, his cheekbone, and his jaw within seconds of each other.  He clutched his face with both hands, blood streaming through his fingers, resisting the urge to cry out in pain.

"You humans are weaklings," #17 declared coldly, as he brought down his elbow on the base of Yamucha's spine.  "It's pitiful how weak you are."

All mobility in Yamucha's legs disappeared, and he sank to the ground, having run out of the energy to fly long ago.  He felt #17 kick him sharply in the ribs, turning him over, but he was powerless to resist.  A sneakered foot came down on Yamucha's chest in a crushing blow, and Yamucha felt his breastbone shatter. #17 dug his heel into the remains of Yamucha's chest, grinding his foot in slowly.  A maniacal smile lit up his face, giving him the appearance of a demon from a horror movie.

To Yamucha's alarm, #17 lifted a hand and pointed at him.  _Well ... this is it ..._ the human thought, but in his present state he wasn't too upset about dying.  All he wanted was for the pain to stop . . . 

Almost as though he had heard Yamucha's internal plea, #17 let out a low cackle.  "You don't think I was just going to let you _die_, did you?  That's not very nice!" he chuckled malevolently.  "I'm going to make you _suffer_ first."

A low-powered energy beam lanced out from #17's palm, striking Yamucha in the foot.  Agonizingly slowly, the energy wave crept up Yamucha's legs, burning off his skin in the process.  The melting flesh, nerves, and muscle melded together against the bone, causing more pain than Yamucha had ever felt in his life.  It felt like liquid fire, racing through his body and cauterizing every nerve, paralyzing his brain.  The sickening, putrid stench of his burning flesh caused Yamucha's stomach to heave, and he threw up, the foul-tasting liquid splashing all over his chest, himself too agonized to even try to wipe it away.  He gagged as some of the vomit remained in his mouth, and he was too weak to spit the rest of it up.

Yamucha screamed.

Tenshinhan coughed, spitting out blood in frightful quantities, when he heard Yamucha's cry.  It was like nothing he had ever heard before; it was filled with horror, fear, and tremendous pain, undulating with so much emotion that it almost made him sound like he was sobbing.  Tenshinhan looked over at Yamucha, to see what #17 could possibly be doing to him.

  


A vicious kick to the head jarred Tenshinhan out of his reverie, and he found #18 regarding him coolly, one delicate eyebrow raised.  "Worried about your friend, are you?" she asked casually, forming her fingers into a knife-hand.  Without warning, she chopped through Tenshinhan's leg, severing the limb just above the knee.  Blood spurted in all directions, and #18 moved out of the way, apparently to avoid dirtying her clothing.

"You should be more concerned about yourself," #18 added, appearing suddenly behind him.  One slender hand reached out and grabbed Tenshinhan's arm, yanking it behind him and twisting upward with a sharp snap.  Tenshinhan screamed as he felt his arm break in several places, and he sank to the ground, holding his arm to his chest and trying desperately to stanch the blood that was flowing much too freely from his leg.

Dispassionately, #18 shot out her hand and drove it into Tenshinhan's neck, causing him to retch and gag violently.  Blood burst from the ruptured vessels, and the warrior began to choke as the fluid filled up his throat and clogged his windpipe.  He tried to scream, but all that came out was a wet, gurgling noise, and he retched again, blood staining his clothing and skin and mixing with the dust on the street.  #18 stepped back, content that her prey would die without any further help, leaving Tenshinhan to perish alone on the battlefield.

Through the rushing in his ears, Tenshinhan heard a pitiful sound; Yamucha's voice, weak and hoarse.  "Kill ... me," he was pleading desperately, "... Please ..."

Rolling his bloodshot eyes, Tenshinhan managed to catch a glimpse of Yamucha, and what he saw caused bile to rise up in his throat to mingle with the blood.  From the waist down, Yamucha's body was a gory mess of bone, and scraps of muscle and skin.  His chest was mangled and misshapen, the bones having been completely crushed, and his face was so battered it could hardly be recognized.  #17 stood over him, shooting him with an energy blast, slowly burning the warrior alive.

Yamucha turned his head, and blood, saliva, and the residue of vomit trickled out of his mouth.  "Ten..shin ..." he gasped, sputtering and choking.  "Kill ... me ..."

For the second time in his life, Tenshinhan's eyes began burning as tears coursed down his cheeks.  Propping himself up on his wounded arm — it wasn't much good for anything else anyway — Tenshinhan focussed all his remaining strength and channelled his energy into his other hand.  Neither of the _jinzouningen_ noticed, but Yamucha did, closing his eyes and smiling in gratitude. 

"I'm ... sor..ry ... friend," Tenshinhan finally spat out, blood bubbling from his mouth, and he thrust his arm forward, sending the beam directly into what was left of Yamucha's chest.  The human jerked upward once, then collapsed to the hard cement, lifeless.

"HEY!" #17 shouted indignantly, rounding upon Tenshinhan, eyes blazing with fury.  "What did you have to go do that for?"

#18 burst into mocking laughter, pointing to the pitiful remains of Yamucha's body.  "That one doesn't count, #17!  The human killed him, not you," she grinned, then eyed Tenshinhan like a lion about to pounce.  "That means I'll be _two_ up, when I finish with this one!"

Tenshinhan was quickly fading into unconsciousness, and he knew what was coming.  He was already disappearing into the next dimension when the foot came through his chest, crushing his heart.  With one last, shuddering cough, Tenshinhan was gone.

#18, meanwhile, was shaking with rage as she watched her brother extricate himself from Tenshinhan's mangled form.  "That's not fair!" she protested, "He was mine!  Just because he killed yours, doesn't mean you can turn around and kill _him_!"

#17 just smirked.  "Heh.  I guess we're tied now, sister.  So much for being two up."

  


"We'll have to see about that."

******

"No, no, Kioku!" Gohan chided, catching the toddler's fist in his hand and holding the boy up by the arm.  "You're supposed to punch where I'm _not_ expecting you, not where I'm already blocking!  You're just going to get beaten up that way, silly."

Kioku's lip began to quiver, and his large eyes shimmered with tears.  "Kiku sorry.  Kiku try better next time."

"Hey, I wasn't getting mad at you, kiddo," Gohan interjected quickly, not wanting the child to howl.  "I'm just giving you tips.  Man, you're lucky you didn't train with your dad; he was a really rough teacher.  He'd beat you up for crying."

A sullen frown creased the lines of Kioku's forehead, and he balled his tiny fingers into a fist again.  "Kiku not crying," he argued, and he struck again.

At that very moment, a sharp pain jabbed through Gohan's mind as two large powers — Yamucha and Tenshinhan — disappeared.  "_Augh!_" he cried out, holding his head in his hands, just as Kioku landed a punch on his face.

The little boy jerked back in surprise as Gohan collapsed to his knees, and he ran forward, shaking Gohan's shoulders.  "Kiku sorry!  Kiku sorry!"

"It's not you," Gohan staggered to his feet, face ashen.  "Two of my friends just died, or got really hurt!  I - I felt it!" leaving the two astonished toddlers behind, Gohan flew into the house.  "Mom, Mom!"

"Gohan, what's the matter?" ChiChi set down the plate she was washing and knelt down in front of him.  "Is everything okay?"

"Yamucha and Tenshinhan . . ." Gohan's voice shook, bordering the edge of hysterics.  "They — they're gone, Mom!  Something happened, the - the building must've collapsed on them!  I've got to help them!"

ChiChi hesitated, then nodded.  "Go ahead, Gohan.  But take the kids with you, please?  Bulma and I really can't watch them right now."

"Mom . . ." Gohan was about to protest, but he knew that it was the only way he would get his mother to consent.  "Aw, okay.  I'll be back later."

Running back outside, Gohan grabbed hold of Kioku and Trunks, tucking them under his arms as he took off into the air.  "Where we going?" Kioku demanded, clinging to Gohan's sleeve in fright.

"To find Dad," Gohan replied tightly.   _I hope they're all okay,_ he thought desperately.  _I'll never forgive myself if they needed me and I wasn't there!_

******

"Tenshinhan!" Chaozu screamed hysterically, watching helplessly as his lifelong best friend died right in front of him.  The tiny fighter clenched his hands into fists, sobbing.  "Give him back, you monsters!"

Across the street, Kuririn was still struggling to revive Goku, and it was doubtful if he had even noticed the deaths of his friends.  Vegeta stood next to Chaozu, a silent witness to the massacre, a look of horror intermingled with disgust colouring his features.  Chaozu's body began to shake with rage and grief, and a blue aura surrounded him as he powered up suddenly.

"No!" Vegeta reprimanded him sharply, "Don't do it, you fool!  They'll just kill you, too!"

  


"I — don't — care!" Chaozu's childlike face transformed into a mask of anger, and he flew at the _jinzouningen_.  "They killed Tenshinhan!"

He landed on #18's back before she could react, and he squeezed his eyes shut, drawing all his power to the core of his being.  If Tenshinhan, Yamucha, and even Goku could not defeat these creatures, Chaozu knew he stood absolutely no chance . . . but if he was going to die, he might as well do some good before he went.  Chaozu vowed he would not perish in a bloody heap on the street like his best friend.

"Goodbye, everybody!" Chaozu shouted his final farewell desperately, as he brought his energy together in one explosive force.

The pain only lasted for a split-second as his body was rent to pieces, and soon the life of Chaozu was never felt on Earth again.

"Ugh, that little creep," #18 muttered, and she shrugged off her now-shredded jacket, the only damage Chaozu's kamikaze attack had caused.  "What a moron.  I was trying to keep my clothes clean," she brightened, and looked at her brother with a kind of demented hope.  "Did that one count?"

#17 shook his head, his black hair swinging with the movement.  "Of course not!  _You_ didn't kill him."

"But he blew himself to bits on me, didn't he?  That should at least be a half a point."

"No way!  If you're going to play, play fair."

A... You ... demons ..."

Goku propped himself up on one elbow, raising his head, feeling the pain ripping at his body like wolves at the carcass of a deer.  Kuririn rushed to support him, holding him up, but Goku waved him off.  His friend took a step backwards, concern darkening his face, but he didn't say anything.  His muscles screaming at him in protest, Goku fought to rise to his feet, locking his knees together to hold himself steady.

"This is all a game to you?" the tone of Goku's voice dropped to a low, furious growl, one that none of his friends had ever heard before.  He had only spoken with that degree of passion once, on Nameksei, after Furiza had murdered Kuririn.  "You destroy lives of innocent people, and you rack up points like you're playing a _video game_?  You disgust me!"

"Oh, that's too bad, and I _so_ wanted your approval," #17 sneered.  "So what if it's a game?  All of life is a game, Son Goku.  It just so happens that destruction is part of this one."

"_How dare you_?!" Goku roared, and he flung his head back, hands balled into fists, as a wordless yell of wrath escaped him, tearing loose from deep within him.  His hair flickered in colour, from black to blonde and back again, and his eyes turned to jade as that long-unknown power of the Super Saiyajin coursed through his veins.  Blue-green lightning forked out from his body, striking the ground and creating a deep crater around him.  Still, Goku continued to scream.

Kuririn scrambled backwards as the upsurge of Goku's power threatened to overwhelm him.  Vegeta's eyes widened in silent respect, and he whispered, "Incredible!"  Even the _jinzouningen_ seemed surprised, a startled look passing between them.

The skin around #17's eyes tightened, and he held a hand in front of his sister.  "This one's mine," he declared quietly.

#18 nodded, for once not arguing with him.  "Fine.  I'll take the other two."

#17 stepped forward, and he smirked, ever so slightly.  Goku straightened up, his hair standing upright in spikes of gold, a malevolent expression hardening the lines of his boyish face.  "I'll enjoy this," #17 proclaimed, "Let's hope you aren't as weak as you were before."

  


"The more pain you cause my friends, the stronger I become," Goku snapped, biting off the words like steel bullets.  "You will feel the sting of justice before the day is done, I promise you that!"

"Oh, goody," #17 laughed, and he flicked his fingers invitingly.  "Bring it on.  I haven't had a good challenge all day."

Uttering a roar of challenge, Goku rushed at #17, fists at the ready, and the battle was renewed.

"I've got to help him," Kuririn muttered, clenching his fists and powering up, "Even at Super Saiyajin, Goku can't fight them alone!" he started to take off, but a pressure on his ankle kept him back.  "What the . . ."

Kuririn glanced over his shoulder and saw #18 standing behind him, holding his ankle with one hand.  "And where do you think you're going?" she inquired, "You humans are so supportive of one another, it's almost inspiring.  Unfortunately, that's not going to make me spare you."

"I don't want you to spare me!" Kuririn growled, and he spat derisively.  The trail of saliva hit #18 in the face, and slid glistening down her cheek.  Her eyes hardened dangerously, and Kuririn felt a stab of fear.

"You shouldn't have done that," #18 warned, and her grip on Kuririn's ankle tightened.  The bones gave way with a sickening crunch, and Kuririn groaned in pain. #18 wiped the spittle from her face, then tossed Kuririn casually into a building.

Mocking laughter filled Kuririn's ears as cement and glass rained down on him, lacerating his body, blood gushing from a thousand new wounds.   "Do I have any skin left?" he muttered, raising himself up on his arms, muscles shaking from the effort.  "I'm not finished yet!" he shouted at #18, who towered over him, grinning.

"Aw, poor little guy.  Do you need help?" #18 grasped Kuririn's wrist and yanked him to his feet, but her knee was there to meet his stomach when he straightened up fully.  Kuririn felt a number of ribs crack, but he held back the yell that automatically rose in his throat.

"I've got to admit, you're pretty tough for someone your size," #18 conceded when Kuririn flew at her, launching a volley of punches and kicks.  It didn't matter how many times Kuririn dealt a blow, however; wherever he struck, #18 was there to block it.  Enraged, he threw a vicious punch at her face — only to have his fist brought up against her hand.

"You're pretty cute, too," #18 laughed at the look of shock that permeated Kuririn's expression, overriding his internal battle mode.  When Kuririn sputtered incoherently in response, #18 squeezed down on his fist with such force that every bone in his hand snapped in two or three places.  This time, Kuririn could not repress the shout of pain.

#18 released him, and Kuririn held his mangled hand to his chest, panting heavily in pain, glaring up at her.  The _jinzouningen_ smiled wickedly.  "You know, I bet the ladies are all over you," she remarked coquettishly, and with a sudden movement she caught Kuririn by the back of the neck, pressing on a nerve to keep him immobile.  Smirking, #18 brought her knee up into Kuririn's groin with such terrible force that the human thought he was going to die right then and there.

#18 dropped him, then knelt down beside Kuririn's writhing form to whisper in his ear.  "Too bad you can't father any children," she grinned.

Agony and nausea slammed into Kuririn from all angles, and bile, blood, and vomit rose in his throat so quickly that he could barely throw it up fast enough.  Tears streamed from his eyes as he held his hands over the afflicted area, groaning. "Pain" was hardly an adequate word to describe what was coursing through his body at the moment, and it was all Kuririn could do not to sob like a baby.

The air in front of him shimmered, and #17 phased into being.  Reaching out a hand, the _jinzouningen_ clamped his fingers over Kuririn's head and squeezed, crushing the small human's skull like a walnut in a nutcracker.  It was over almost instantly, the heart-rending scream cut off before Kuririn even had a chance to finish it.

  


"What was that for?" #18 shoved #17, sending him sprawling.  "That's two of mine you've killed now!  What's the big idea — can't you handle your own?"

"You were _flirting_ with him," #17 hissed, shooting her a venomous glare.  "I'm not letting my sister get involved with any of these pathetic losers!"

#18 threw up her hands, half in exasperation, half in disgust.  "Honestly, #17, what is the matter with you?  I was going to kill him in a few minutes anyway.  What's the deal?  You can play with your victims but I can't play with mine?"

"I don't call them cute!"

"Just because I'm _jinzouningen_ doesn't mean I'm not a woman, too," #18 sniffed indignantly.  "You have your fun your way, and I have mine."

#17 crossed his arms.  "Listen, sis' . . ."

"No!" #18 cut him off, flying past him before her brother had the chance to react.  She knelt down to where Goku was lying, broken, on the cement and picked him up by the collar.  "It's payback time, brother dear!"

Goku opened his eyes a crack as #18 lifted him over her head.  Through the haze of blood in his eyes, Goku was powerless to do anything but watch as his opponent raised a hand, fingers again in knife-hand formation.  The next second, #18's hand plunged into Goku's chest, making him feel like his blood had burst into flames, then she wrapped her fingers around Goku's heart and ripped it right out of his body.  His lungs followed.

_Fire . . . pain . . . can't . . . take it . . ._

_Roaring . . . in my ears . . . where's . . . the wind?_

_Flowers . . . I . . . smell . . . flowers?_

_Where's . . . that light . . . coming . . . from?_

_Goodbye . . . ChiChi . . . Gohan . . . ev..er..y..o..n..e............................._

"So there," #18 smirked triumphantly, still holding Goku's internal organs.  When she noticed this, she dropped them with a mutter of distaste, looking at her blood-covered hands.  "Ugh.  It's too bad battle has to be so dirty," she nudged Goku's body with her toe, and once she had ascertained that he was dead, #18 wiped her hands clean on the tattered remains of his gi.

Meanwhile, #17 was shaking with rage.  "#18, what do you think you're doing?  Son Goku was _mine_!"

"Not anymore," #18 glowered at him, hands on her hips, and #17 actually took a step backward when he evaluated the ferocity in her expression.  "I figure the two you killed were worth Son Goku.  You're always like that, #17; everything's fair until I do it back to you.  Well, live with it."

#17 reigned in his temper visibly, a muscle in his cheek twitching.  "Fine.  We're even.  Let's just get on with the battle before the last one attacks us."

"Right."

******

  


#18 dug into Kakarotto's chest, pulling out his heart and holding the still-beating muscle in her hand, then tore out the Saiyajin's lungs, as well.  Laughing, the _jinzouningen_ brandished the organs like trophies, letting Kakarotto's mutilated carcass drop to the ground.

Paralysed with shock and the slightest stirring of fear, Vegeta watched as Kakarotto collapsed, falling into a crumpled heap on the broken and bloodstained asphalt of the streets.  Kakarotto's lips moved soundlessly, the colour draining from his face, blood seeping from the jagged hole in his chest, and one arm twitched feebly.  At last, the Earth's greatest warrior gave up the battle for life.

Vegeta's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he felt the remaining flicker of Kakarotto's life energy disappear, and the Saiyajin Prince was alone in the galaxy.  "It can't be . . ." Vegeta expostulated hoarsely, his eyes burning.  Too agonized to be annoyed at himself for expressing emotion, Vegeta merely swiped at his eyes, hopelessly attempting to assimilate what had just occurred.

_Kakarotto_, he thought, his thoughts coming in short bursts, like his breaths.  _How could you leave me?  Just like that, without warning?  You . . . you let two windup toys get the better of you!  How could that be possible?  You were the only other warrior on this forsaken planet . . . how could you leave me alone?  How _could_ you?_

His fists clenched, and a crimson stain began seeping through the white material of Vegeta's gloves as his fingernails bit into his palm.  The blood dripped down between his fingers, a tiny mockery of what had happened to Kakarotto.  _No_!  Vegeta argued within himself.  _You can't.  You can't be gone — I won't let you!  I won't let those creatures destroy you!_

Lifting his arms in the air, Vegeta felt a shout of despair rise from the centre of his being, and he let it loose, feeling the sorrow and rage inside him released in his cry.  Tears left his eyes, creating burning trails down his cheeks, then suddenly, the grief transformed into something else; sheer, unadulterated power.

It was like fire.  It was like electricity.  It was like wind.  It was like all those things, yet it was like nothing Vegeta had felt before.  It filled every part of him, growing like a virus, spreading through him, replacing the blood in his veins and the oxygen in his lungs.

Closing his eyes, Vegeta screamed.  His body began to tremble as the power became too great for him to hold it in, so he did the only thing he could think of to do — he released it.  Yelling even louder, Vegeta flung his hands to the sky and let the energy course through him to explode into the air.

A loud crackling filled the air, similar to the sound of a lightning bolt, and Vegeta felt his hair stand on end.  His eyes seemed to burst into flames, and his hair felt as though it, too, had transformed into fire.  Vegeta opened his eyes, and without having to look, he knew what he had become.

_I am a Super Saiyajin_, he told himself, but there was no pride in the accomplishment.  After years of trying to attain his goal, once it had been realized, Vegeta felt only a horrible emptiness.  _I was supposed to reach this plateau to battle you, Kakarotto . . . but I was too late._

Vegeta's head snapped up, rage welling inside him until he thought he would burst.  "I couldn't fight you," he growled, "So I will avenge your death instead!"

The two _jinzouningen_ spun around to face him as Vegeta raced toward them, energy crackling around him like a thunderstorm.  "You will pay, witch!" he shouted, dealing #18 a hard punch to the face that sent her sprawling into a building.

The satisfied smirk didn't have the chance to fully cross Vegeta's face before #18 was back on her feet, charging toward him.  The Saiyajin was knocked to the ground, blood pouring from his nose, but he barely even felt the pain.  He had endured far worse in his training sessions, and Vegeta jumped into the air almost immediately.  "You've got to do better than that," he challenged.

"Fine," #18 spat, her catlike eyes narrowing into a look of dangerous competence.  "You're quite the spitfire, aren't you!"

  


"Shut up and fight," Vegeta growled, phasing in and out as he fended off #18's attacks, dodging punches and kicks that came too close to connecting for his comfort.

Suddenly, Vegeta's head jerked back as #18 grabbed a fistful of his hair, and she pulled back her arm, flinging the Saiyajin through the air like a rag doll.  Before Vegeta had a chance to right himself, #18's boot slammed into the side of his head with crushing force, and he felt his skull cave in on one side.  Blood flowed freely, like water gushing from a broken pipeline, running into Vegeta's eyes and gumming the eyelids shut.

Vegeta swore, wiping frantically at his eyes with his sleeve, when #18's fist slammed into his lower back.  As Vegeta watched in horror, #18's hand appeared through his abdomen, covered in his blood.  Pain came in waves, washing over him as though he were a pebble in the ocean, but Vegeta gritted his teeth and forced it back.

Anyone else would have been killed by the blow, but Vegeta clung to life stubbornly, the way a drowning man would tie himself to a life raft. #18 came into view in front of him, fading and reappearing as his vision threatened to go, sneering at him.  "You humans are so weak," she laughed.  "You're hardly a fight at all."

Anger filled Vegeta anew, and he roared in fury.  "_I'M NOT HUMAN!!!_" he bellowed, bringing his hands together for a tremendous energy blast.  "Die, _jinzouningen_!"

The resulting explosion of power sent #18 reeling, and #17 flew to her side, helping her up, only to be bashed in the face by his irate twin.  Vegeta grinned tightly and he held one hand over the hole in his armour, wincing only slightly as his fingers came in contact with his intestine, wet and slippery.

_Well, Kakarotto, I may be joining you sooner than you think.  But I'm not going to die with a whimper — oh, no!  The Prince of Saiyajins will die with honour, I promise you that!_

Across the street, the _jinzouningen_ glanced at each other, then nodded, preparing for a double-team attack.  Vegeta flipped them the one-finger salute in challenge, and he laughed at the expression of anger that spasmed across both their faces.

Laughingly, without fear, Vegeta powered up and waited for death.

******

Kioku was quaking with fear as Gogo flew, and he kept his face buried in the fabric of Gogo's shirt.  Three times since the beginning of the flight, Gogo had cried out as if in pain, yelling out the name of one of Kioku's friends; Chaozu-san, Kuririn-san . . . and finally, Papa.  Kioku whimpered quietly, not wanting to disturb Gogo, though all he wanted to do was burst into tears.  He didn't want anything bad to have happened to Papa!

He had asked Gogo what was the matter with Papa, but Gogo had only snapped at him in response, so Kioku had shut up.  At Gogo's other side, Trunks-kun was making frightened sounds, since his Papa was the only person still alive, but according to Gogo, Vegeta-san's life energy was quickly disappearing.

On the ground below, a broken, abandoned city was growing.  Gogo instantly switched course and headed straight for it, flying to a large alley where, Kioku noticed with horror, several dead bodies lay.  Kioku had never seen a dead body before, but he knew what live ones looked like, and those ones weren't alive.

Gogo was yelling words that Kioku knew he would have been sent to his room for saying, if Mama had heard, and the ten-year-old dropped to a heavy landing.  He all but dumped Kioku and Trunks-kun onto the unforgiving concrete, and as Kioku scrambled to his feet, using Trunks-kun as a prop, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Vegeta-san stood in the middle of the street, yelling _really_ naughty words at two people, who didn't look more than a few years older than Gogo was.  As the three boys stared, the two bad people (at least, Kioku assumed they were bad) stood back-to-back, thrust their arms forward, and fired two enormous energy waves in unison.  

  


Vegeta-san didn't run.  He didn't try to fly away.

He smirked.

Screaming in defiance, Vegeta-san was engulfed in blue energy, ripping away at his body.  The other two shot a whole lot of disc-like blasts at him, cutting Vegeta-san's body almost to ribbons, not leaving very much left of him.  What remained was a messy, mangled pile of flesh barely recognizable as Trunks-kun's Papa.

"_Papa_!" Trunks-kun yelled, trying to run forward, but Kioku held him back.  He didn't want Trunks-kun to get hurt, too.  Eventually Trunks-kun stopped fighting him, and he collapsed, sobbing hard.  Kioku fell down to the ground beside him, and the toddlers clung to each other, crying in fear and sadness.

"Vegeta . . ." Gogo whispered, and Kioku looked up at him.  The older boy looked around at the bodies of his friends.  "Tenshinhan . . . Yamucha . . . Kuririn . . ." his voice broke, and he began to cry.  "_Daddy_!"

The two bad people looked at them, and they laughed.  "Oh, look, it's the sons," the girl chuckled meanly, looking at Kioku like he was a piece of raw meat that had gone rotten.  "Except that green one . . . what the heck is it?"

"Who cares," the boy wrinkled his nose. "They're not enough of a fight.  Let's come back for them in about ten years, when they might be some threat to us."

"Yeah, right," she disagreed, then the two of them flew into the air and disappeared.

"Daddy," Gogo cried, his tone sounding more and more desperate every time he said it.  "Daddy . . . no . . . _DADDY!  Come back_!"

The next second, Kioku and Trunks-kun backed away in fright, because something happened to Gogo that they had never seen before.  He started screaming, loud and deep, his head thrown back and fists raised, and blue lightning started shooting from his body.  All of a sudden, Gogo's black hair turned brilliant gold, and his eyes burned a bright green.  Still crying, Gogo smashed his fist into one of the walls, and the entire building collapsed with a rumble.  The rocks and chunks of cement that fell on him were disintegrated by the wall of fire surrounding him.

Trunks-kun staggered to his feet, and he ran across the street, stumbling on loose stones and body parts, until he came to what was left of his father.  "Papa?" he called out, reaching out a tiny hand to touch the charred, bloody body.  He held his hand in front of his face, staring at the blood that coloured his fingers as though he didn't believe it was real.

"No!  Papa!  Papa can't be gone!" Trunks yelled, and for a split-second his hair and eyes turned to the same colour as Gogo's before returning to normal.  Weeping, Trunks flung himself on his Papa's body, burying his face in the remains of his chest, his small body shaking violently.  "Papa," he whispered.

At the same time, Kioku was scrambling over the rocks and broken bodies, trying his hardest not to look at them, not wanting to know who they were.  He didn't want to remember Kuririn-san like that, with his head smashed in, or Yamucha-san without any lower body, or Tenshinhan-san with that hole in his throat.

Finally, Kioku came to the battered form of his Papa.  Kneeling down at his father's side, Kioku stretched out his small hands and lightly touched Papa's face, trying to clean the blood off with his fingers.  His Papa's eyes were open, white and glassy and empty, and they made Kioku want to scream.

But that wasn't as bad as the humongous, gaping hole in Papa's chest.  Something was _wrong_ about that hole, but Kioku didn't know what it was.  Something was . . . missing.  Shaking his head as he was suddenly gripped with terror, Kioku backpedalled hastily.  He didn't want to know what seemed so weird about Papa's chest.

  


Suddenly, Kioku found himself lying face-down on the cement, having slipped on something.  Startled, Kioku looked down at his feet and let out a shrill scream.

He had stepped on something red and bloody; Papa's heart.  There it was, sitting on the road, slimy and wet, instead of being inside Papa's chest where it belonged.  Kioku's breath began to hitch in his chest and he sobbed hysterically, unable to control himself, as he frantically attempted to wipe the heart-slime off his pants, but to no avail.

_Pain . . . horrible, unconquerable pain . . ._

_There was a hole where his chest should be, and the boy was flying behind him.  What?  The boy had flown straight _through_ him!  No!  That wasn't possible!  That couldn't be right!  He was the Demon King — some little punk wasn't supposed to be able to kill him!_

_But it was true.  He was dying.  Nausea built up inside him, and he began to vomit, sickly greenish liquid spewing forth from his throat._

_His son would live.  His son would avenge him._

Kioku's eyes snapped open, and his breath shortened.  What was that?  It felt like something that had actually _happened_ to him!  It was like a real, live memory, but Kioku knew no boy had ever flown straight through him before.  Whatever it was, memory or dream, it sure was scary!

Whimpering, too exhausted to cry anymore, Kioku crawled on top of Papa's body and hugged him, trying to pretend he didn't feel the hole underneath him, the warm blood staining his clothes.  "Papa," was all he could say.

The various sobbing died down as the boys wore themselves out from crying, and the sound was replaced by the whistling of wind through the alleyways.  But gradually, filling the ears of the one and a half-year-old and the ten-year-old, came a soft, disjointed sound, a quiet song.

It was the sound of Kioku, singing brokenly to himself, hiccups interrupting his words:

"Happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday dear Kiku . . ."

******

A/N: *Sniff* That was awful, I know! I don't like killing off the senshi, I really don't! Poor Kioku -- talk about being scarred for life, eh? O yeah . . . my sister said I should add that I don't hate Yamucha, Tenshinhan, Kuririn, or any of the fighters who got the more gory deaths. She said it sounds like I hate them and I'm majorly bashing them, so in case any of you got the same impression; I don't. I like all the fighters. 'Kay? (And no, Vegeta isn't my favourite character. Piccolo is. It was just Vegeta's glory moment in the battle there... ^^) 

Ah, yes. I realize Kioku hasn't exactly been the main character in these chapters, but from the next chapter on, he will be. As far as I can tell, the story will be from his point of view from now on. Sorry for the wait. 

Next chapter should be out after New Year, probably. Warning, there's a two-year time lapse between this chapter and the next, so don't be confused. ^^ Until we meet again, happy holidays! 


	3. Memories, Herbs, and Decisions

Disclaimer: Not mine. If I owned the series, I'd give the humans and Namekusejins an ascended level, kind of like Super Saiyajin. If there was one, Kuririn and Piccolo would have transformed about six times by now! Give the Saiyajins all the excuses to get powerful . . . sheesh. (I don't count Piccolo's fusing with Kami-sama as an ascended level, either. Even though he did kick butt for a while ... heh. ^^) 

A/N: I'm back! I'm not sure when I said I would update, but knowing me, I'm most likely late. Sorry if I am. This chapter is shorter (for me ... ^_^) and again, lacking in action, but I thought after the last one it would be too much to have another grisly chapter right off. There's a bit of a surprising twist near the end, though . . . Kioku and Trunks decide to do something . . . well . . . rather unexpected. Enjoy! As always, feedback is appreciated. 

Deeper Than Colour: The Kioku Story

**Chapter Three: Memories, Herbs, and Decisions **

_Laughing wildly, he watched as the humans turned tail and ran.  "It's a monster!" they screamed.  "A demon!"  "It's the devil!" "He'll kill us all!"_

_"You're all correct," he grinned, showing his fangs.  Sometimes he wished he could eat, just so he could tear into their carcasses and walk around with blood on his fangs.  It would be worth the inconvenience just to see the looks on their faces.  "I _am_ a demon, and I _am_ going to kill you.  All of you!"_

_Panic ensued as the humans scrambled over top of each other in their haste to get away.  Several of them were trampled as their fellow men ran them over, crushing them to death.  He cackled, pointing at the broken bodies, laughing as some of the humans shot him looks of contempt and loathing._

_"All right, time's up!" he called gleefully, holding up a hand.  "I'll see you all in hell.  It'll be nice to have company!"_

_The energy blast ripped through the crowd of people, disintegrating them to nothing but dust.  He continued to laugh as their screams evaporated with their bodies . . ._

With a loud shout, Son Kioku bolted out of the covers, clutching his head in his hands.  "Not real," the three-year-old reminded himself, "It's just a dream.  I'm right here."

Tears filled the boy's large eyes and he pressed his fingers to his heart, trying to forget the ache that burned there.  The dreams were so _real_ that they felt like actual memories . . . but it was strange.  Even though Kioku was the one having the dream and he was the one doing the actions, he knew it wasn't himself . . . yet, it _was_ him, as well.  It felt like he was in someone else's body and inside someone else's mind, but at the same time it was _his_ body and mind.  All in all, it turned the poor boy's brain in circles.

He'd begun to have those dreams in the daytime, even when he wasn't sleeping.  Sometimes, things he did — little things, like slapping mosquitoes, or if he scraped his knees and saw blood — caused the pseudo-memories, or whatever they were, to come surging back with frightening frequency.

"I hate these dreams," Kioku whispered, staring up at the ceiling.  Papa had painted glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, some in the shapes of real constellations, but some made up ones, as well; if Kioku looked up, he could see Papa's head with its messy hair, and Vegeta-san's spiky hair, and Kuririn-san's head with its funny dots on it . . . and Papa Piccolo-san, with his pointy ears and antennae . . . the little Namekusejin tore his gaze away, not wanting to cry.  It was bad enough having nightmares without thinking of all his friends.

Kioku whimpered, and he drew his knees up to his chest.  Whatever was happening to him, he didn't like it!

Next to him, Trunks frowned in his sleep, then stirred and sat up slowly.  "Wha- . . . ?" the lavender-haired boy looked at his best friend, blinking in confusion, then comprehension dawned.  "You gots nightmares again?"

Kioku nodded shakily, and Trunks sighed in sympathy.  Since the deaths of the Z-senshi, the Son family had moved in to Capsule Corp., since their house had been destroyed by the _jinzouningen_.  The two boys had opted to share a room, the deaths of their fathers having brought them even closer together, and they took what comfort they could in the knowledge that they had both lost someone they cared for deeply.  If the children had been close friends before, they were all but inseparable now.

"It's scary, Trunks-kun," Kioku admitted, "It's like there's another . . . another _me_ inside me.  And I - I kill people!"

"What'cha do this time?" Trunks inquired quizzically, propping his head against the pillows and lacing his fingers behind his head.

  


"I killed a whole group of people," Kioku shuddered.  "Hundreds an' hundreds of them."

"Well, that's kinda' cool," Trunks raised an eyebrow.  "I mean, at least you're really strong, right?"

Kioku shook his head vehemently, and he tugged on his ear in frustration.  "It's fun to be that strong, but . . . you didn't hear them scream.  It was awful!  I don't ever wanna' hear that again!"

"You didn't tell Gohan-san yet, did you," Trunks folded his arms, frowning in disapproval when Kioku winced guiltily.  "Why not?  Maybe he can help you."

"How?" Kioku pulled the pillow out from behind him and hugged it to his chest, resting his chin on top of it.  "Gogo gots enough problems.  He doesn't need me bugging him.  'Sides, he's busy fighting the _jinzouningen_.  He doesn't got time to talk to me about silly dreams."

Trunks scowled, his lavender eyebrows knitting together.  "I don't like that.  He's your big brother!  He's _s'posed_ to help you," he nodded once in decision, then grabbed Kioku by the arm and jumped off the bed.  "We're gonna' go see him right now."

"But he's sleeping!" Kioku protested, stumbling once when his pajama feet skidded on the smooth, metal floor.  Even though Trunks kidded Kioku about wearing "footie pajamas" when he wasn't a baby anymore, Kioku liked them.  They were purple, with the sigil of his first name on the front, and last name on the back.  His Mama had made them.

"Who cares?" Trunks scoffed, still pulling him along.  Trunks was clad in an oversized Capsule Corp. t-shirt that hung down to his knees, and white shorts.  "You gotta' talk to him.  Anyway, I'm up, you're up, so why shouldn't Gohan-san be up?"

Kioku gave up trying to resist yet another of his friend's schemes, and the two of them padded up the stairs and down the hallway to Gohan's bedroom.  As they passed Kioku's mother's room, the sound of quiet crying drifted into the hall.  Kioku's mouth tightened.  "Mama's crying in her sleep again," he sighed.

Trunks patted him on the back comfortingly, and Kioku paused a moment in the doorway, peering in at his mother.  Mama had cried herself to sleep ever since Papa died, but she didn't think Kioku knew.  Kioku never woke her up, because he didn't want her to find out.  Mama tried so hard to be strong that it would be mean for Kioku to let on that he knew how much she was hurting.

After a time, the boys reached Gohan's room.  The almost-teenager was sprawled on his bed, his cheek buried in the pillow, the covers falling off the side of the bed.  Trunks giggled a little when he heard Gohan snoring, but Kioku didn't laugh.  Something about Gohan sleeping, with his black hair falling over his eyes, making him look almost like a little kid again, jogged something in Kioku's mind.

_He watched Gohan sleep, listening to the child's soft snores, seeing the tiny chest rise and fall in a gentle rhythm.  All kinds of emotions rushed through him, threatening to swamp him, and he shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but it didn't work._

_The firelight flickered over Gohan's pale skin, and the boy sighed in his sleep.  Suddenly, he extended a hand, tentatively, stretching it toward Gohan.  The boy moved and he stopped, then hesitantly, reached out again and touched Gohan's hair, marvelling at its softness.  He stroked the boy's forehead gently, ruffling his hair, wondering at the boy's innocence._

Don't worry, kid,_ he thought, and the words startled him — as did the conviction behind them.  _I won't let anything happen to you.  I promise.__

_Satisfied, he rumpled Gohan's hair one last time, then withdrew his hand._

  


"Kiku!  Kiku!  Hey, where are you?"

Kioku shook himself, and when he came to his senses, he realized Trunks was shaking him, his face only a few inches away.  "Good grief, you crazy!" Trunks covered up his obvious relief by giving Kioku a shove.  "Whatcha' trying to do, creep me out?  Don't _do_ that!"

"Do what?" Kioku blinked, wondering what was the matter with Trunks.  "What'd I do?"

"Your eyes went all funny!" Trunks' own eyes were wide, laced with panic.  "An' I was calling an' calling, an' you didn't hear me!  What happened, did you have another one?"

Kioku nodded, forgetting for a moment their plan to wake Gohan.  "Kinda'.  But it wasn't a bad one, this time.  And it felt like somebody else.  I wasn't mean this time.  I was with Gogo, and he was only a little bit bigger than us, and I said I would protect him . . . and I - I petted his forehead."

Trunks' eyebrows rose, an indication of incredulity.  "You _what_?"

"No, I really did!" Kioku shuffled forward to stand close beside Gohan's bed, and he closed his eyes, trying to remember what he had done in the 'dream'.  He reached out and stroked Gohan's forehead with his tiny hand, lifting his bangs off his face.  "I did that," Kioku explained.

Trunks still looked skeptical, then Gohan stirred in his sleep.  "Piccolo-san?" he murmured, and both boys jumped, glancing at each other in surprise.

"Piccolo-san?" Trunks whispered.  "You don't think you've been dreaming about your _Papa_, do you?"

"No," Kioku hissed back.  "Papa Piccolo-san wasn't mean.  I don't think he'd do all those evil things like before."

"But you said it felt like somebody else this time," Trunks argued, planting his hands on his hips.  For a second, he looked like his mother when she tried to prove a point.  "Maybe Piccolo-san was the one with Gohan-san, and _his_ Papa was the bad one who killed everybody."

"Why would I dream about them?" Kioku was so caught up in his discussion that he forgot he still had his hand on Gohan's head, until he looked back and saw that Gohan's eyes were open.  He drew his hand back, feeling guilty, though he didn't know why.

Gohan touched his forehead lightly, and his mouth tightened with sadness.  "What did you do that for?" he demanded of Kioku, drawing the covers up around himself protectively.  "I sure hope you don't think that was funny."

Kioku shook his head vehemently.  "No, no, Gogo!  I wasn't trying to be funny.  I just . . . I was trying to figure things out."

The hurt drained from Gohan's face, and he shook himself with a visible effort.  "Sorry, Kioku.  What kind of things?"

All of a sudden the whole situation seemed petty and silly, overall a poor reason for waking Gohan up in the middle of the night.  Scuffing his pajama-clad feet on the floor, Kioku hung his head, embarrassed.  "Never mind.  I'm sorry, Gogo.  I didn't mean to wake you up.  Good night."

He started to leave the room, but Trunks yanked him back by the seat of his pj's.  "I don't think so," Trunks dragged him across the room to Gohan's bed.  "Gohan-san, Kiku has been having dreams and stuff.  I think he's dreaming about Piccolo-san and Piccolo-san's father."

  


Gohan cocked his head to one side in surprise, and he reached down and lifted Kioku and Trunks up onto the bed.  Kioku crawled under the covers and snuggled up next to Gohan, and Gohan put an arm around him.  Trunks curled up next to Kioku, lying perpendicular to him with his head on Kioku's stomach.  "What do you mean by dreams, kiddo?" Gohan asked, rubbing a hand across Kioku's bald head.  "Are you remembering stuff?"

"Yes," Kioku nodded, and he told Gohan of all the 'dreams' he could remember.  It took some time, and the numbers on Gohan's digital clock kept clicking higher.  By the time Kioku finished, Trunks was fast asleep and snoring, and Gohan tossed a corner of the blanket over him.

"I wondered when that would happen," Gohan mused, to Kioku's confusion.  Kioku stared up at him, not understanding, and Gohan smiled abstractedly.  "It's something that can happen with your species, the Namekusejin.  Sometimes, when a kid is born, he's born with the memories of his father.  That's what happened to Piccolo-san, and it was awful.  He didn't want you to suffer like he did, so he didn't give you his.  If he had, you would have ended up with memories of not just his life, but his father's, too."

"So why am I getting them now?" 

Gohan looked thoughtful, but after a while he shrugged.  "I'm not Namekusejin, so I can't tell — wait!  When did you start getting these dreams, or whatever?"

Kioku grimaced as he thought back to the first time he'd had one of his memories, when he had been crying over the death of his Papa, Goku.  "When Papa died, and I saw the big hole in his chest.  I remembered a kid flying through me, and I died.  After that, they came almost every night.  And sometimes in daytime, if I see blood or something.  Or when I watched you sleeping."

Gohan winced at that last part, and Kioku patted his hand in apology.  "I'm sorry, Gogo.  I didn't know Papa Piccolo-san used to do that.  I don't want to make you sad."

"Hey, kiddo', that's okay," Gohan sighed, and he chucked Kioku under the chin.  "You didn't know.  But it sounds to me like seeing Dad . . . die . . . it . . ." Gohan closed his eyes, and his arm tightened around Kioku involuntarily.  Kioku wiped at his own eyes, which had begun to mist over, and he chewed on his lip until his fangs bit through the skin and he began to bleed.

"Anyhow," Gohan sniffed loudly, "Maybe that's what triggered it.  At any rate, you've got some of Piccolo-san's memories — that's what seeing me at the campfire was from.  But all the bits about killing people, and about the kid flying through you, those were memories from Piccolo Daimaou.  Trunks is right, he was Piccolo-san's father.  Well, kind of."

"I don't want them," Kioku proclaimed, punching the covers.  "I don't want the memories!  They're mean!"  he paused, thinking back to the one from his birth father.  "Well, maybe not all.  But I don't want them anyway.  It's too weird.  It's hard to tell who's me and who's someone else sometimes."

Gohan nodded sympathetically and was about to say something when the radio beside his bed crackled and came to life.  Bulma had designed it so it would pick up emergency broadcasts about the _jinzouningen_ and would turn on automatically.  "_This is Connie Fraser, from Z-FM.  Watertown is under attack!  The _jinzouningen_ struck a few minutes ago, and are now devastating the city!  No one knows how long the city will last under such an onslaught.  All around me, buildings are collapsing and exploding, and people are dying everywhere.  Wait, I can see one of the _jinzouningen_ now.  He's looking at me, and — oh no!_"  The report ended in a gurgling scream, and the sound gave way to static.

"No!" Gohan flung off the blankets and sprang out of bed, accidentally knocking the two toddlers to the ground.  "Why don't they give up?" he wondered angrily, yanking a training suit over his t-shirt and boxers, hopping around on one foot and cursing as he struggled to pull on his boots.  "They can't just leave us alone, can they?"

He threw open the window and had one foot on the sash when he turned around and looked back at Kioku.  "I'll talk to you later, okay, kid?"

  


Kioku nodded fearfully, wishing as he did every time Gohan took off to fight that there was some way he could help.  "Okay.  Be careful, Gogo."

Gohan nodded curtly, and he flared into Super Saiyajin with a short yell.  "Tell Mom I'll be fine," he ordered, then shot into the sky and was gone.

"Aww," Trunks muttered sulkily, crossing his arms.  "We never get any fun."

"Fun?!" Kioku repeated incredulously, helping to disentangle Trunks from the bedclothes.  "Trunks-kun, Gogo could get killed out there!  That's not fun!"

"They killed my Papa, and Goku-san," Trunks scowled blackly, resembling his father.  "It would be fun to kill them for that.  I wish I was strong enough.  _Then_ I'd teach them not to mess with a Saiyajin."

"Or a Namekusejin," Kioku added, giving in to Trunks' words.  The loss of his adoptive father was still a painful wound in his heart, one he didn't think would ever heal.  "But we gotta' wait.  We gotta' get Gogo to train us, so we can be as strong as him.  When we're strong, then we can fight the _jinzouningen_.  And we'll beat them.  We'll turn 'em into microwaves!"

Trunks giggled at the thought.  "We'll turn 'em into toilets," he chuckled.

"Into microwaves _and_ toilets," Kioku decided gleefully.  "And little action figures of themselves, and then we'll put them _in_ the microwaves and _flush_ them down the toilets!"

The two boys burst out laughing, but their humour was short-lived as their mothers ran into the room.  "Where's Gohan-chan?" ChiChi, Kioku's mother, demanded anxiously.  She was wearing a long, white nightgown and her hair was down, and her face was scared-looking and as pale as her clothing.  "He went off to fight again, didn't he!"

"Yes, Mama," Kioku reported, and the expression of fear and sadness on his mother's face sobered him up immediately.  "He said to tell you that he'll be okay."

"That's what he always says," Mama wiped at her eyes, which were filling with tears.  "And the next morning, he comes back all beat up," she buried her face in her hands.  "Goku-sa always said he'd be careful, too, and now he . . . he's . . ."

Bulma-san looked alarmed, and she put her arm around Mama's shoulders, hugging her.  "Hey, ChiChi, it's all right.  Gohan will be fine.  He's a strong fighter, and he knows what he's doing."

Mama continued to cry, her body shaking, and Kioku felt scared.  He never knew what to do when grownups cried; it was like something that wasn't supposed to happen.  Before the deaths of his Papa and his friends, Kioku had thought grownups could handle everything.  Now, he knew better.

"I don't want to lose him, Bulma," Mama's voice trembled like it was being tossed around in the wind.  "I've already lost my Goku . . . if Gohan-chan died, I don't know what I'd . . ."

Apprehensively, Kioku shuffled forward to stand next to Mama.  He always risked being chastised when he tried to talk to his mother when she cried; sometimes she hugged him, but other times she told him to leave her alone, and Bulma-san would chase him and Trunks out of the room.  

This time, however, Mama picked Kioku up and held him close, pressing her face into his shoulder, almost as if he was a teddy bear.  "Mama?" Kioku piped up timidly.  "You want me to sleep with you tonight?"

"That would be nice, sweetheart," he couldn't see her face, but something in her voice told him she was smiling a little.  "Gohan-chan used to sleep with me and your Daddy when he was your age . . . I've missed that."

  


"Okay," unconsciously, Kioku reached out and played with Mama's hair like he used to do when he was a baby, and found that it still caused his fears to diminish ever so slightly.  "Gogo will be back tomorrow.  And he'll be safe."

"Hey!"  Trunks cried out indignantly as Kioku and ChiChi left the room.  "What about me?"

Bulma chuckled softly, and she ruffled Trunks' hair affectionately.  "What about you, kid?  You aren't grumpy 'cause Kioku's gonna' sleep with his Mom for one night, are you?"

Trunks crossed his arms.  "Yes," he pouted.  "Kioku left.  Big baby."

"Aw, come on," Bulma looked down at him, a questioning expression on her face.  "Are you too big to sleep with your Mommy, Trunks?"

The almost four-year-old nearly choked at the thought of such a childish action and was about to say so when he caught a glimpse on his mother's face.  Her mouth was curved up in a smile, but it was obviously forced, and the lines at the corners of her eyes tightened.  It was the same look she got before Gohan had told her of Vegeta's death, when she knew what had happened without anyone having to say a word.  Seeing her face like that made Trunks change his mind.

"Nah," he shook his head.  "Not for one night, anyway."

Bulma's resulting smile was so brilliant that Trunks had to grin back, and he sprang up into her arms.  "I'm not gonna' do this every night," he warned, but Bulma just laughed.

Back in Mama's room, Kioku cuddled up close to her, laying his head on her arm.  Mama had stopped crying, but she kept her back turned to the side of the bed that would have been Papa's, had he still been alive.  Kioku reached up and petted her cheek comfortingly, and was rewarded by a wan smile.  "Gogo will be fine," he insisted.

Mama nodded, almost obediently, and she kissed him on the forehead.  "Good night, Kioku-chan."

"'Night, Mama," Kioku nestled his head against her shoulder, letting out a high-pitched yawn.  "Love you."

For a second Mama's eyes glistened and threatened to spill over, but she shook her head and gained control of her emotions just in time.  "I love you, too, baby.  Sweet dreams."

_I hope so_, Kioku thought with a small shudder.

******

Kioku was awakened from a dream about meditating by a waterfall, by a loud _thump_ downstairs.  "Gogo's back!" he exclaimed, jumping out of bed.  He tried to run to the door, but the feet of his pajamas had stretched over his toes and he kept tripping on the fabric.  "_Waugh_!" he yelped, slipping in the hall and nearly bouncing down the stairs.

Mama, who had hastily thrust her feet into slippers and was in the process of tying the sash on her housecoat, picked Kioku up by the elastic waistband of his pants and carried him down.  "Gohan-chan?" she called.  "Is that you?"

Kioku finally squirmed free of his mother's tight embrace and dropped to the floor, scrambling down the hall and all but skating on the bottoms of his feet until he reached the front foyer.  Mama was close behind him, and she let out a shriek of fear and horror.  "Gohan-chan!" she glanced back over her shoulder.  "Bulma, Dad, get down here!"

Gohan was sprawled face-down on the ground, blood oozing from hundreds of gashes all over his body, soaking the remaining fabric of his tattered clothing.  He was just barely conscious, the fingers of one hand twitching feebly, and he muttered something under his breath.  Kioku's sharp hearing picked it up as, "The children," repeated over and over.

"Gogo, are you okay?" Kioku shook his shoulder gently, trying to wake him but not wanting to hurt him.  "Are you hurt bad?"

  


"I couldn't save the children," Gohan rolled over onto his side and curled up in the fetal position.  Tears slipped down his cheeks, creating a clean path through the blood and grime streaking his face.  "I couldn't save them . . . the building collapsed, and they . . . they all . . ." after that, his words became unintelligible once more.

Kioku could only stare, helpless, waiting for Mama and Bulma-san and Grandpa to come.  He watched the movement of Gohan's chest with every intake of his laboured breathing, saw the blood continue to seep through his clothes.  One of Gohan's eyes was scabbed over so badly that it looked like a giant, bruised bump, and that side of his face was red and peeling, like he had been burned.

_"Maybe I was a bit too hard this time," he muttered to himself, carefully nudging Gohan in the side.  The boy had been rendered unconscious by a number of particularly vicious blows, and his tiny body lay broken on the rocks.  He shook his head, ostensibly in disgust at the child's weakness, but the slightest trace of pity worked its way into his eyes._

_"All right, kid, let's go home," he declared aloud, though he knew Gohan couldn't hear him.  He knelt down and picked up the boy's limp form, cradling it almost gently in his muscled arms.  Gohan whimpered slightly, but otherwise gave no sign of returning to consciousness._

_He flew back to the cliffs where they spent their nights, and set Gohan down on the ground.  After a moment's thought, he lifted a hand and created a blanket to cover him, and bandages for the worst of his wounds, then blasted a pile of wood to create a campfire.  "I'll be back," he told Gohan's comatose form, then took off for the nearest forest._

_For the next little while, he spent his time gathering certain leaves, roots, and herbs, and once he was finished he returned to the campsite.  Gohan had not yet awakened, which was for the best, since the cure for energy burns and other sparring wounds often hurt more than the injuries themselves.  _

_He ground the herbs to powder and mixed them with water, making a poultice which he placed on the wounds.  Within minutes, the bleeding stopped and the ugly purple bruises faded, and the slight fever that had overtaken Gohan broke..  He smiled tightly, knowing the worst of the injuries would heal by morning._

"Kioku-chan, you've got to move, sweetheart," Bulma-san ordered, gently pushing Kioku out of the way.  "Gohan's going to be all right, but we need to get him to a bed.  Can you and Trunks go play for a while?"

Kioku didn't hear her.  He kept his eyes screwed tightly shut, trying to remember exactly which herbs Papa Piccolo-san (assuming that was who he was) had used in the dream.  After a few minutes, he was able to recall, not only the appearances, but the names of the plants as well.

"Kioku-chan?" Mama placed a hand to his forehead, worry lines creasing her face.  "Are you feeling all right, honey?"

"Kiku gots daydreams again," Trunks explained with typical toddler rationality, "Don't worry.  He's just thinking.  We'll stay out of the way now.  —'mon, Kiku."

Kioku still didn't respond, so Trunks latched hold of his wrist and pulled him outside.  "Gosh, Kiku, what did you dream about this time?  You did that funny staring eyeball thingy again."

"Sorry," Kioku apologized quickly, then he grabbed Trunks' arm and ran in the direction of the woods at the back of the Capsule Corp. compound.

"Where are we going?" Trunks demanded, easily keeping pace with his younger friend.  "Are we gonna' climb trees again?"

"Nope.  I dreamed that Papa Piccolo-san got a whole bunch of plants and crushed them up and made some stuff that made Gogo feel better.  Maybe if I find those plants, I could make Gogo feel better _now_."

  


"You're nuts," the boy proclaimed, shaking his head.  "Dreams are one thing.  A bunch of plants helping Gohan-san . . . that's different.  How can plants help?"

Kioku shot his friend a withering stare as they entered the wood, the sunlight falling in dappled patches on the ground.  "Whaddaya' think medicine is made from, dummy?  Plants an' stuff, I bet.  'Sides, if the other dreams were right, why not this one?"

Trunks threw up his arms in defeat, rolling his blue eyes.  "You're still crazy, but the dream thing is crazy anyhow.  What do the plants look like?"

Kioku grinned happily.  "There was a green plant with . . . um . . . jagged edges, and the points of the leaves are red.  It's called 'Devil's Foot'.  You find that one.  I'm gonna' look for one called 'Poison Root'."

"Nice names," Trunks muttered.  "Sounds like they'd hurt Gohan-san, not help him . . ." still grumbling away to himself, Trunks got down on his hands and knees and began crawling in the underbrush, searching for the so-called Devil's Foot.

Half an hour later, the children emerged from the woods; scruffy and dirty, pajamas torn at the knees and elbows, but exultant.  Kioku's excitement had been catching, and with each plant discovered, Trunks' yells of triumph grew louder, until they even overpowered Kioku's.

"That was cool," Trunks' face was smeared with dirt, but his eyes shone out from his face like pieces of blue crystal.  "I never knew there were so many plants in one place!"

"Me, neither," Kioku looked at his bulging pockets, and at the hem of Trunks' shirt, all of which were stuffed to the bursting point with various herbs.  "I wonder how Papa Piccolo-san learned about all this stuff?"

Trunks shrugged, then let out a quick 'eep!' and picked up one of the flowers he had dropped.  "I dunno'.  I guess warriors know more than just reg'lar fighting techniques, don't they!"

"_My_ Papa does, anyway," Kioku beamed proudly, and for once Trunks merely grinned in agreement, not making any sarcastic comments. 

"Heh," Trunks smiled.  "Your Papa was pretty neat, Kiku.  I wish we could've met him."

Kioku cocked his head to one side, thinking of the three memories he now had of his Papa.  It was funny, but somehow he felt as if he _did_ know Piccolo.  He shared some of Piccolo's knowledge, though it was only a little about plants, and it made him feel close to him, in a private, intimate way.  "Maybe we will.  Maybe I'll remember so much from him that it will be like we knew him."

"You sound like your Papa," Trunks laughed, then shook his head in confusion.  "I mean, Goku-san.  It's too confusing!  Normal people only have one father."

"I'm green, and I have pointy ears," Kioku bared his fangs to prove his point.  "I'm not normal."

Their laughter carried all the way to the house.

Gohan was awake by then, but only marginally coherent.  Mama had gained control of herself by the time they got back, and was helping to dress the wounds.  The hysterics that overpowered Mama's reaction to Gohan's injuries never lasted more than ten minutes, and a startling competency quickly replaced the panic. "Kioku, what are you doing in here?" she chided him, wrapping a bandage on Gohan's chest.  She was holding Gohan down with surprising strength, kneeling on his arms, and she spoke to Kioku without looking at him or pausing in her ministrations.

Kioku winced, noting how Gohan's blood had stained Mama's nightgown, the housecoat having been discarded some time ago, and he held out a handful of plants.  "I know how to help Gogo," he reported, smiling importantly.  "These will make the bleeding stop, and make the bruises go away, and everything!"

  


Mama and Bulma-san exchanged harried glances, but Kioku ignored them.  "Really.  I'm not lying."

"He's right," Trunks piped up, "Let us help.   Even if you don't believe us, we won't hurt him."

Mama sighed in defeat, and she waved her hands, a gesture of agreement.  "All right, all right.  But can I ask how you know this?"

"Papa Piccolo-san told me," Kioku replied matter-of-factly, scrambling up onto the bed.  Trunks had a little more trouble as he did not want to spill his cargo, and Bulma-san lifted him up.  "I need hot water, and . . . and something to grind up the plants, and a bowl, and some cloths," Kioku instructed, planting his hands on his hips and looking around authoritatively.  "Hurry, Mama!"

Mama looked at him funnily, but complied, bringing the requested items quickly.  Kioku spread the various herbs, leaves, roots, and the occasional flower on the blanket, and he picked out a few.  He ground them to powder with the mortar and pestle Mama used to crush herbs for baking, and mixed the powder with the water.  Carefully, Kioku picked up the resulting paste and spread it over the burn on the left side of Gohan's face.  Gohan let out an agonized yell, but Kioku continued to pat his face gently.

As everyone watched, the ugly redness faded from his face, and the blistering skin began to smooth over.  Gohan's cries died down to quiet whimpers.  "I don't believe it!" Mama whispered.

"Toldja'," Trunks grinned triumphantly.  "Kiku knows what he's doing."

Kioku smiled proudly, then wiped Gohan's face clean with a cloth soaked in water.  "Trunks-kun, gimme' the . . . uh . . . the Sunroot and the Monkeyflower," when the plants were handed to him, Kioku crushed them to an extremely fine powder, so that they dissolved when they were mixed with water.

"This is gonna' taste yucky, Gogo," Kioku warned, but all Gohan did was groan.  Gently cupping Gohan's chin in his tiny hand, Kioku tilted his brother's head backward and dribbled the liquid into his open mouth.  Gohan gagged and tried to spit it out, but Kioku covered his mouth and plugged his nose, forcing him to swallow.

"_Blech_!" Gohan squeezed his eyes shut, showing the first indication of fully returning to consciousness.  "Wha- wha' wassat?"

"Stuff," Kioku explained evasively.  "You gotta' drink more.  You won't hurt so bad if you drink it."

"'S'disgusting," Gohan muttered, but he didn't turn his head away.  "Pic'lo-san . . . usta gimme' this," he murmured, "Did you . . . rem'ber that . . . too?"

Kioku nodded, slowly feeding Gohan the rest of the mixture.  "Yeah.  Is it working?"

Gohan smiled weakly, the faintest of expressions, but at least it was something.  "You're a lot . . . like your . . . Dad," he patted Kioku's head, then sank back into the pillows.  "Get the . . . Arrow-weed."

"I was just gonna'," Kioku affirmed, finding the spiky, purple-leaved plant.  "Go back to sleep, Gogo."

******

Gohan's wounds were healed by nightfall, and he was able to tell of what had happened to him during the battle.  Kioku covered his ears, not wanting to hear.  Gohan's descriptive talents were extraordinary, giving his listeners the perfect mental image of what had happened.

After supper, Gohan retired to his room, the good humour that had overtaken him during his bout of semi-consciousness all but nonexistent.  Kioku followed timidly, a slightly-bolder Trunks in his wake.  "Gogo?" Kioku knocked on the door.

  


"I'm tired, kids.  Can you leave me alone?" Gohan's voice, weary and strained, came through the door.

"We wanna' talk to you," Kioku protested, and when Gohan didn't reply, he mustered his resolve and pushed open the door. 

Gohan was lying on his bed, facing the wall, holding something in his hand.  Kioku glanced at the bedside table and noted that the photograph of Gohan, Mama, and Papa was missing from its usual place.  He winced.  "Gogo, we want you to train us," he spoke up.

"No," Gohan replied sharply.  "You're not strong enough.  I don't want you getting hurt."

"Well, 'course we aren't!" Trunks interjected, "You haven't trained us yet!"

Kioku shushed him with a hand gesture, and he tugged on the corner of Gohan's blanket.  "But Gogo, you weren't strong when you were little.  Papa Piccolo-san had to teach you how to fight.  That's what Papa said, anyway."

Gohan rolled over to face them in a violent motion, a ferocious glare on his face.  "No!" he shouted.  "I don't want to train you!  Don't you see?  I-it's because I stayed behind to train you guys that I wasn't there when Dad, Kuririn, and everyone else were killed.  While they were out there _dying_ I was fooling around in the backyard pretending to teach you two martial arts!"

"But Gogo," Kioku piped up, knowing what he was about to say could very well end up in an explosive outburst.  "If you went with Papa and everyone, you - you would be dead, too.  You weren't strong enough."

"_I wish I was!_" Gohan yelled, and both boys stumbled backwards in fear, tripping over themselves and falling with a _thud_ to the floor.  "I'd rather be in heaven with Dad and Piccolo-san and everybody than stuck here!  It's a nightmare now!  We all have to run and hide from those monsters, and I'm not strong enough to fight them — nobody is!  I have to live here and watch Mom cry when she thinks nobody's looking, and look at you two and see your fathers every time, and .. . and . . . and know that I _could_ be with Dad and Piccolo!  I wish I _had_ died!"

Curling up into a ball, Gohan flung the covers over his head.  "Go away," he muttered, "I'm not going to train you.  You might get strong, but not strong enough.  And I can't stop seeing your dads when I look at you.  It's too hard!" he cut himself off with a choked-off sob.  "Leave me alone."

Silently, the children edged out of the room, shutting the door softly.  Kioku's lip quivered, and he sank to the floor, face buried in his hands.  "I always hurt Gogo," he sniffled, "I try to be a good little brother, but I just hurt him all the time."

Trunks sat beside him slowly, and he cautiously rested a hand on Kioku's back.  "You don't hurt him," he argued.  "Well, I mean, he does get sad sometimes, but it's not your fault."

"No?" Kioku countered bitterly.  "I look like Papa Piccolo-san, and that makes him sad.  He didn't get to go fight with Papa and Vegeta-san because I asked him to stay.  If he only fights the _jinzouningen_ so he can die and be with my Papas, then me helping him with the plants only made it worse.  Nothing I do is right!"

"It's not your fault," Trunks insisted quietly, "Gohan-san loves you.  He's just sad, that's all."

With a sob, Kioku leaned against Trunks, and his friend hugged him.  "It's okay, Kiku," Trunks rubbed Kioku's back.  "It's okay."

Mama and Bulma-san came to check on Gohan then, but stopped short when they saw their sons.  "Kioku-chan, what's the matter?  Is something wrong with Gohan?"

"No," Trunks replied, thankfully giving Kioku time to compose himself.  "Kiku is sad 'cause he wants to help Gohan-san, but he doesn't think he can."

  


Mama bent down and picked Kioku up, and he burrowed his face in the juncture between her neck and shoulder.  "I shouldn't have been born, Mama," Kioku hiccupped, "All I do is hurt people.  I remind Gogo of Papa Piccolo-san, and . . . and a lot of stuff."

"No, that isn't true," Mama kissed the top of his head.  "I love you.  I'm glad you were born, because you remind us all that there is still life and innocence in a world of death and pain."

"Do I remind you of Papa?" Kioku demanded suddenly, and his body felt intensely heavy as the thought struck him.  "I know I don't look like him, but do I remind you of him?"

Mama paused, and in her silence she said more than any words could.  "Well, yes.  You are a lot like him.  You both seem so innocent and carefree, but you get paralysed with guilt when you think you've hurt people.  I know he wasn't your blood father, but you're like him in a lot of ways."

"Does it make you sad?"

"Sometimes," Mama admitted, "But I don't care.  I love you, and I wouldn't trade you for anything."

"What about me?" Trunks piped up from the ground.  "Mom, do I make you sad because of Papa?  Answer honest."

Bulma-san sighed gustily.  "What's with all the questions, you two?  Yes, Trunks, you're almost exactly like your father.  You look just like him, and you have most of his attitude.  Sometimes it can make me feel a little sad.  But ChiChi's right; it doesn't make me love you any less.  If anything, I love you more because it's like I have a piece of your father to stay with me."

Neither Kioku nor Trunks said anything, and soon they were taken to bed.

"I hurt everybody," Kioku whispered, once his mother had left and the lights were turned out.  "Mama says she loves me, but if she's sad then it's not fair to her."

"I know," Trunks agreed, and he rolled over to face Kioku.  "I know we're just kids, but do you ever think that a lot of stuff is our fault?  Like, if we hadn't been born, our Papas would have been training instead of taking care of us, and then they could have killed the _jinzouningen_?"

"Yeah.  It feels like I should do something, something important, like my Papas did, but I can't do anything.  I'm a baby."

"You're not a baby!" Trunks expostulated.  "We're little, but we're not babies.  Someday we'll do something big and important.  I know we will."

"And before we do, all I'm good for is making everybody sad," Kioku intoned morosely.  "Sometimes I think I should just leave.  Leave and come back after I killed the _jinzouningen_.  Then I wouldn't make Mama or Gogo sad, and when I got back, Gogo would like me better, maybe."

Trunks sat up, and there was a gleam in his eye that Kioku had warily come to recognize as the one that meant his friend had thought up a crazy idea.  "Why don't we?  Why don't we leave?  Our Papas trained by themselves most of the time — why don't we go away and train ourselves?  We could get really strong, and defeat the _jinzouningen_, and we wouldn't put our Mamas in danger by living with them.  And then, when the _jinzouningen_ are dead, we could come back and we'd be heroes!"

Kioku said nothing, thinking the idea over in his mind.  He knew that leaving would make his Mama cry, but she would probably understand why he was gone.  She would have Gogo to protect her, and she wouldn't have to look at Kioku and think of Papa all the time.  The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him.

"What if we did?" Kioku said slowly, "How would we survive?  We wouldn't have Mama feeding us and stuff."

  


"Who cares?" Trunks' eyes were sparkling now, and he flicked his fingers in a "so what?" gesture.  "Papa told me that Saiyajin babies used to get dumped off on planets by themselves when they were only a week old, and they were okay.  And didn't you say that Piccolo-san left Gohan-san in the desert for six months, and he did fine?  We're just as smart as Gohan-san.  We could do it."

"Okay," Kioku nodded, knowing that if he thought about it too long, he would never reach a decision.  "Let's go."

"Yeah!" Trunks  exclaimed, though he carefully kept his voice down.  "We're gonna' be real fighters!  It shouldn't take very long for us to get strong enough to fight the _jinzouningen_, right?  A couple weeks, or a month or so?"

Kioku blinked rapidly, assessing the validity of the estimation.  The result was a dubious shake of the head.  "I don't think so, Trunks-kun.  I mean, it took everybody else years an' years to get strong.  Why would we get strong so fast?"

Trunks appeared baffled by this, but he didn't let it stop him, or even dim his enthusiasm.  "Okay, so maybe it'll take a bit longer . . . but kids learn faster than grownups.  Don't worry about it!  What should we pack?"

"Um," Kioku bit his lip thoughtfully, glancing around.  "Mama always says to have clean socks and underwear.  What about that?"

Trunks wrinkled his nose.  "Ew.  How boring.  But yeah, you're right," he found a capsule suitcase in the closet and began tossing the aforementioned items into it.  Kioku took up his example and packed his own suitcase.  "Now what?" Trunks looked up.

"Food for you, silly," Kioku rolled his large eyes.  "I don't need any, but you might."

"Nah," his friend disagreed.  "I can kill animals and stuff.  But I might need candy!" Trunks scooted under the bed and emerged with an armful of chocolate and other sweets.

In this manner, the boys packed their suitcases.  The trivial action helped remove the severity of their decision from their minds as they chattered and bantered, packing comic books they couldn't yet read and other items for the times when they took breaks from training.  All the while, Kioku tried to convince himself  that the ache in his heart was from lack of sleep, not glimpses of what he would feel without his mother.

_It's for the best, Mama_, Kioku thought, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand subtly, so Trunks wouldn't notice.  _I don't wanna' hurt you anymore.  When I'm strong, I-I'll kill the _jinzouningen_ and come back to you._

A hand fell to rest on his shoulder, and Kioku's head snapped up.  He chewed on his lip guiltily as he saw Trunks frowning at him.  "Are you okay?" his friend asked.  "Do you wanna' stay?"

_Yes, yes, yes! _ Kioku's mind screamed at him, but he shook his head dumbly, brushing the remainder of the tears from his cheeks.  "No.  I don't want Mama and Gogo to hurt anymore."

"Okay," Trunks disappeared into his gigantic closet, then emerged with a large, blue box.  "Mama made these for me a long time ago, so I could train with Papa.  They're stretchy, and really strong.  I think we should wear 'em."

Kioku watched curiously as Trunks opened the box and withdrew some funny-looking outfits; black bodysuits made of a curious, rubbery material, white armour and gloves, and white, gold-tipped boots.  "Whoa, cool!" he proclaimed.

Trunks shot him a toothy grin as he tossed Kioku a set of clothing.  "It's Saiyajin armour . . . _royal_ Saiyajin armour.  Put it on!"

  


Kioku shimmied out of his pj's and pulled on the bodysuit, marvelling as the material expanded to conform perfectly to his body.  He had a little trouble putting on the chest plate, but Trunks had dressed much quicker and helped him buckle the straps.  It took some hopping around on one foot at a time to get the boots on, and Kioku refused to wear the gloves because they pressed uncomfortably against his taloned fingers, but eventually he was ready.

"You make a good Saiyajin," Trunks complimented him.  "Um . . . green and big-eared, but hey, who cares?  I've got purple hair and blue eyes."

"Let's leave now, Trunks-kun," Kioku spoke up suddenly, encapsulating his suitcase.  "I-I don't wanna' stay anymore or I won't go.  I know it."

"Sure," Trunks punched Kioku's arm, and they sneaked out the window and jumped down, not caring that they were on the third floor.  What little training they had received in their early years had at least taught them how to jump without hurting themselves.  

"You think we should leave a note?" Kioku wondered aloud as they trekked across the compound.

Trunks looked at him as though someone had tattooed 'STUPID' on Kioku's forehead.  "Uh, Kiku?  I can't write.  Can you?"

"No," the tiny Namekusejin hung his head, feeling like an idiot.  "But how will we tell them where we went?  I don't want them to think we died or something."

"Well, maybe we could leave a message on the answering machine," Trunks chewed thoughtfully on his thumb.  "I think some of the phones still work . . . there's gotta' be at least one good payphone somewhere."

Kioku beamed appreciatively at him, and some of the sorrow of leaving his family was eased.  "So after we find a phone, we can start training, right?"

"Yep!"

"How do we train?  I've never done it without Gogo or Papa or Vegeta-san telling me what to do."

Trunks stopped walking for a few seconds, scratching the back of his head, then he held up one hand, grinning, flashing the "V for victory" sign with his fingers.  "We'll figure it out!  We're smart."

Kioku had to laugh at his best friend's optimism.  "Okay, okay.  I guess you're right."

"'Course I am," Trunks grinned, and he slung an arm over Kioku's shoulders as they resumed their walk.  "I'm always right."

Arm in arm, the two friends walked on into the darkening night, under the ever-watchful gaze of the glittering stars.

******

O, my! The little intrepids have decided it would be better to train away from home, eh? How will poor Kioku adjust to living without his mother? And how will their mothers react? But most importantly, will they survive? It's a dangerous world out there . . . 

Ah. My infamous second disclaimers... ^^ My sister suggested I add this one (again ... hmm. Pattern?). THIS STORY WILL NOT CONTAIN SHOUNEN-AI. Ahem. Kioku and Trunks are friends -- close friends, I'll admit, but I don't write romance between three-year-olds, thanks. And no, there will be no romance later, either. Just in case anyone was wondering if there was "something" between the kids (*cough* sicko! *cough*). 


	4. Training Tips From The Master

Disclaimer: I don't own DB/Z/GT. I'm not thinking up any clever, witty lines this time, either. I'm on a kind of time limit ... ^_^ 

A/N: I know I wasn't going to update until February, but this is called a "I don't want to study anymore chemistry because my brains will explode" gift chapter to you guys. Heh. I don't like studying . . . so here you go. Seriously, though, I won't update anything else until after, and the next chapter of this story might be a little longer in coming. But here's something to tide you over until February. ^^ 

This chapter doesn't have blood or guts or too much action in it . . . it's more of an interim bit, with the beginning of the kids' training. So, enjoy. 

Deeper Than Colour — The Kioku Story

**Chapter Four: Training Tips From The Master**

_BEEP! ... Uh, Mama?  Um, it's me.  Trunks.  Um, me an' Kiku decided we're gonna' leave to train for a while.  Not forever, just until we get strong enough to beat the _jinzouningen_.  A couple months, maybe?  Anyhow, we didn't want to bother Gohan-san 'cause he's busy all the time, so that's why we left.  And we don't wanna' put you and ChiChi-san in danger.  We don't want the _jinzouningen_ to come looking for us and kill you.  So.  Um . . . yeah.  Uh, Kiku wants to talk now, so here he is ....... _(scuffling sounds)_ ....... Mama?  It's Kiku.  D-don't be mad or sad, please . . . we will be back, after we get rid of the _jinzouningen_.  We'll kill them so they can't hurt anybody again.  But we . . . we didn't leave 'cause we don't love you, 'cause we do.  Um, we just thought it would be better if we were gone.  So you wouldn't have to see Papa in me and Bulma-san wouldn't see Vegeta-san in Trunks-kun and all that.  Tell Gogo not to come looking, 'cause he won't find us.  We're little and we're good hiders.  'Bye, Mama, 'bye Gogo, 'bye Gram'pa.  I love you.  Oh, Trunks-kun wants back on ....... _(more scuffling)_ ....... Hi again.  I just wanted to say 'bye, Mama.  And . . . um . . . I know I never say it, but I love you.  See you after we kill the _jinzouningen_.  Oh yeah, 'bye to ChiChi-san and Gyuumao-san, too. ...  BEEP!_

******

"Ouch!  Trunks-kun, get off me now!"

"Just a second.  I hafta' hang up the phone."

"Trunks-kun!  You're standing on my antennae!  Owww, it _hurts_!"

"I'm sorry!" Trunks sprang nimbly to the ground and landed on the broken concrete, raising a small cloud of dust.  He glanced worriedly at Kioku.  The only illumination came from the street lamps, spilling out onto the road, and in the yellowy-orange light, Trunks' face looked like the visage of some bizarre alien.  "You okay?"

Kioku glared at him, rubbing his head, then his expression changed to a broad grin with startling swiftness.  "Yeah.  It's done hurting now," the smile disappeared as Kioku's face drooped.  "I hope Mama isn't too sad."

"She'll be okay," Trunks reassured him, "Just . . . don't think about her.  I'm not thinking about my Mama, and _I_ don't feel like I m-miss her," but his voice faltered, and Kioku looked at him out the corner of his eye.  Trunks' crystal-blue eyes were shimmering, and Kioku smiled in sympathy.

"You're right," Kioku spoke up, a little too loudly.  "Let's find somewhere to train.  Somewhere the _jinzouningen_ won't find us, but where Gogo won't know to look, either."

"Like where?" Trunks seemed extremely relieved to have a change of topic, and he latched onto the new problem with great, if somewhat forced, enthusiasm.  "A city?  A forest?"

Kioku shrugged, massaging his forehead with his fingers.  "I don't know!  Um . . . someplace.  Just keep walking.  We'll figure it out."

The boys trudged through the ruins of the city, climbing over pieces of crumbled cement, pausing a time or two to stare at the ground when they came across the bloodied remains of the city's inhabitants.  After the fourth such occurrence, Kioku felt ready to head back home, and he could hardly see the pavement as the tears blurred his vision.

"Don't look," Trunks warned, covering Kioku's eyes, leading him through the worst of the holocaust.  The small boy's voice deepened with fury, and his hands shook over Kioku's eyes.  "This is why we're fighting the _jinzouningen_, Kiku.  So that this won't happen anymore."

  


"But it will happen," Kioku argued, yanking Trunks' hands away and glaring furiously, though his anger wasn't directed toward his friend.  "We won't be strong enough for a long time.  Lots an' lots of people will die before we can do anything about it.  I _hate_ this!"

Something happened to Kioku then, as he stood with his fists clenched, eyes staring off into the sky.  His blood seemed to disappear and it was like his veins were filled with lightning, running through his body, and, had he not been bald, his hair would have stood on end.  Without knowing why, Kioku opened his mouth and let out an incoherent scream, filled with rage and pain, feeling the hurt from all the dead people in the city, and incredible anger toward the _jinzouningen_.  

He thrust his hands up to the sky, and the power that had been building up within him was released in an amazing outpouring of light.  The night sky was lit almost to the brightness of day, and anything that wasn't tied down to the ground was flung backwards — including Trunks.

"WHOOOAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!"  Trunks yelled as he careened head-over-heels in the air, smashing into a semi-upright building a hundred metres away.  "...ow..." his tiny voice filtered through the roar of Kioku's energy aura, barely audible, sounding startled and cranky, but not really hurt.

At last, the sudden onslaught of energy faded and Kioku collapsed to his knees, gasping and coughing, fingers digging into the pavement.  Now that the crackling power was no longer surging through him, Kioku felt . . . empty; like the shell of a cicada — the same in appearance but completely devoid of substance within.

Only one thought could be formed in the void of Kioku's mind: he wanted more.  Whatever it was that had just happened, it awakened a yearning deep inside him that had been completely vacant before.

"What the heck was that?" Trunks' voice startled Kioku, and the Namekusejin whirled around to see his friend half-limping back to him, scratched and bruised but otherwise unharmed.  The demi-Saiyajin uttered a few choice words gleaned from his father's more colourful vocabulary, shooting Kioku looks as though the three-year-old had just pulled a Dragonball from his ear.  "I haven't seen anybody go nuts like that since Gohan-san!"

"I-I don't know," Kioku stammered, rising slowly to his feet.  His legs felt wobbly, and his head spun.  "I just got really angry, and the power just . . . just _came_."

"That's how Gohan-san turned into a Super Saiyajin," Trunks informed him, holding Kioku under the elbow as his legs threatened not to support his weight.  "He got really, really, _really_ mad.  Do you think that getting angry is the secret to power?"

Kioku shook his head, frowning.  "I hope not.  Getting mad is like - like hate, and Mama told me hate is bad.  It's like poison, Trunks-kun; it eats up your heart until there's nothing left."

"The _jinzouningen_ are different, Kiku.  Yeah, it's not good to hate people, but they're not people!  They're monsters!" Trunks' eyes flashed, and for a split-second it was almost like Kioku was looking at a smaller version of Vegeta-san.  "They kill everybody, and they aren't sorry.  They _like_ it!  They deserve to be destroyed."

"I never said they didn't," Kioku argued, "But . . . do we have to feel hate to get strong?  'Cause destroying the _jinzouningen_ is one thing, but feeling that kind of - of angryness all the time, that's not what I want."

"You're sounding like Goku-san again," Trunks sighed gustily, and he scratched his head, messing up his tousled hair even further.  "Look, let's just forget about it for now.  Now we need to find a place to sleep."

"Okay."

  


The two boys searched through the rubble for a secure spot in which to rest, where they would be protected and sheltered without having to worry about the building collapsing on them.  It took some doing, but at last they sought refuge in a half-broken building that seemed to be secure.  They huddled together, resting back-to-back, trying to ignore the coldness that seeped through their clothing.  They'd removed their chest plates and boots, since the armour absorbed the cold and spread it through their bodies, and sat clad in the bodysuits.

Kioku shivered in the cool night air, because he had never slept outside; even when he and Trunks had played at camping in the backyard, Bulma-san had made sure their tent had been equipped with all the conveniences of a modern home.

"We shoulda' brought blankets," Trunks observed miserably.  "This is stupid.  I never know what to pack and stuff."

Kioku nodded silently, rubbing his arms.  "I feel like a baby," he remarked, feeling embarrassed.  "I'm three . . . I should know how to sleep without a blanket."

"I'm almost four, and I'm colder than you are," Trunks retorted, "So don't feel too bad."

"I'm colder than you."

"N'uh-uh!  I'm colder."

"No, I am.  My fingers are froze."

"No, _I'm_ colder!  My fingers and my _ears_ are froze!"

"Well my ears are bigger than yours so they're _twice_ as froze!"

They bantered back and forth in this manner until Kioku realized how ridiculous the argument was, and he burst into fits of giggles.  Trunks looked at him oddly for a few seconds, then joined in the laughter.

Once they had worn themselves out, Kioku gasping for air and watching as his breath puffed in front of him, something happened.  The landscape of demolished skyscrapers and twinkling stars vanished, replaced by arid desert and rocky cliffs . . .

_The child whimpered in his sleep, curling up into a little ball with his arms wrapped around his knees, chin digging into his chest.  "I'm cold," he whispered, his already small voice sounding even tinier as he shivered.  He opened one eye, stared up at his teacher imploringly.  "Can I sleep with you, Piccolo-san?"_

_"No," he grunted, shifting away.  "I'm not in the mood to cuddle with you, brat."_

_"I don't wanna' cuddle," Gohan argued, lower lip protruding.  "I just wanna' stay warm."_

_He blew out his breath in a snort, wondering how a child with such awesome destructive power within him could be . . . well . . . so childish!  "You're not sleeping on my lap, little one.  Just wait a minute," closing his eyes, he focussed his mind and within seconds, a blanket appeared over Gohan's huddled form._

_Gohan clutched the blanket to him, grinning widely, and he glanced at him.  "Thank you, sir!"_

_"Just don't lose it, because I'm not giving you another one.  And if you make any of those disgustingly 'cute' noises in your sleep again, I'll blast the blanket to ashes."_

_Gohan's eyes sparkled mischievously, and suddenly he held the blanket tightly around his shoulders, then leapt up onto his _sensei_'s lap.  "I dare you to push me off, Piccolo-san," he giggled, snuggling close._

_  
_

_He snorted again, and after an unceremonious shove, Gohan found himself in the dust, the wounded expression on his round face making him look like a kicked dog.  "You didn't think I'd do that, did you?" he smirked, crossing his arms, then the grin faded as Gohan's eyes began shimmering with tears.  "Ach, kid, sleep wherever you want. I don't care."_

_He closed his eyes and settled back against the cliff, pretending he didn't care one way or another.  A few seconds later, he heard Gohan give a sigh of understanding, then the boy crawled back into his lap.  He didn't comment, and neither did Gohan for a while._

_At last, a tiny voice piped up.  "Will you teach me that thing where you make blankets and clothes and stuff appear?"_

_"No.  It's a Namekusejin ability.  Go to sleep."_

_"Oh, okay.  G'night, Piccolo-san."_

_"H'n."_

Kioku blinked several times, wondering why the memories had been coming so frequently, and just when they were needed.  He didn't have much time to ponder, though, because his attentions were drawn to Trunks.  The demi-Saiyajin was huddled against Kioku, arms around his waist, his body shuddering violently, and Kioku quickly became alarmed. 

He frowned in thought, thinking back to the memory, and he let what he knew of Papa Piccolo-san's mind fill him, so that for a few seconds he could read his father's knowledge.  Like he had done with the herbs, Kioku concentrated on one specific aspect of the flashback, and after a while he nodded in satisfaction.

"Haaahh!" he whispered, holding out his hands, but nothing happened.  His eyebrow ridges furrowing, Kioku chewed on his lip and forced his mind to focus, a few select words from Vegeta-san's vocab' dancing through his brain.  "Work, you silly thing," he ordered in a commanding hiss.

The air rang with a kind of '_shnnng_' noise, and Kioku jumped as a blanket appeared out of nowhere, falling to the ground.  "Yeah!" Kioku whispered, picking the white material up and placing it over him and Trunks, feeling warmer almost instantly.  Funny how something so simply familiar like a blanket could make him feel at home.

"Pretend Mama's the one tucking me in," Kioku whispered huskily to himself, pulling the edge of the blanket up to his chin, aware that Trunks was drowsily doing the same.  "Pretend she's right here . . ."

Before he relinquished control of his body to sleep, Kioku shifted slightly to wipe the tear that rolled down his cheek.

******

"Is walking part of training?  'Cause if it is, I should be a Super Saiyajin by now," Trunks whined, giving a great show of moaning and groaning as they continued their trek to wherever Kioku was leading them.

"I dunno'.  Maybe," Kioku allowed, stopping for a second to rub the bottoms of his feet.  "I think I gots boot blisters."

"Me, too.  Where are we going?"

"Wherever my feet are going," Kioku explained sketchily, ignoring Trunks, who was rolling his eyes.  "I'm not sure, but I think Papa Piccolo-san knows where to take us."

"Oh.  Gre-e-eat," Trunks threw up his arms in a sarcastic gesture.  "Piccolo-san.  A dead guy is telling us where to go.  Why didn't I think of that?  Gee, it's so simple!  So smart!" he glared at Kioku, but it was more out of exhaustion than malice.  "Don't tell me he talks to you _and_ Gohan-san!"

Kioku shook his head, trying not to limp as his tender, pampered feet grew increasingly sore.  "No, but it feels like he's showing me sometimes.  It's weird, Trunks-kun, and you'll think I'm stupid if I tell you, so never mind."

  


Trunks just shrugged, not really caring one way or the other.  His friend was strange, and he knew that, but he liked him that way.  "I don't think you're stupid.  It's just kind of funny.  So where is Piccolo-san making us go?"

"We'll know when we get there."

"Wonderful."

******

"Are you _sure_?" 

Kioku glanced at Trunks incredulously.  "Whaddaya' mean?  'Course I'm sure!  This is where we're gonna' train."

The lavender-haired boy shook his head, eyebrows raised, and he waved his arms frantically.  "There's nothin' here!  No food, no water, nothin'!  We'll die out here!"

"We will not," Kioku scoffed, casting his gaze about the expansive landscape.  Over the course of nearly a week, their travels had led them to a large, open desert, filled with rocky cliffs and mountain caves.  "And food never woulda' been a problem if you'd _brought_ some."

"Don't remind me," Trunks retorted sourly, planting his fists on his hips.  "Well, okay, we're here.  There's prol'ly lotsa' animals around here _some_where, if I can just find 'em.  No sweat," he licked his lips hungrily, since his candy stash had been reduced to a few stale mints, and Kioku suppressed a giggle.  It looked as though Trunks expected the animals to hop out of the cracks in the rocks and stand there waiting for Trunks to eat them.

Trunks must have heard the muffled laughter, because he whirled on Kioku, blue eyes snapping with irritation.  He looked a lot like Bulma-san when she used to get mad at Vegeta-san.  "Will you cut it out?" Trunks demanded, "You don't hafta' eat, so don't make fun of me, okay?"

All Trunks' griping over the past few days finally reached a sort of boiling point, pushing Kioku's already strained patience past its tolerance level.  "SHUT UP!" he yelled, clenching his fists.  "It was your idea to leave home!  I miss Mama and Gogo, and if all you're gonna' do is complain, then why didn't we just stay there?  Quit being a baby!" the normally-gentle Namekusejin crossed his arms, scowling ferociously.

Trunks' eyes widened, and his entire body trembled as he backed a few steps away.  Kioku blinked rapidly in confusion, wondering why in the world Trunks was so upset.  He'd just shouted at him, that's all.  "Trunks-kun, what's the matter?  I didn't wanna' —"

"Not _you_, dummy!" Trunks cut him off, scrambling backwards and tripping over his own feet.  He skittered backwards like a crab, nearly falling over in his attempt to get away, his hands slipping in the loose sand.  "Th-that!"

It wasn't until Kioku realized Trunks' wavering finger was pointing to something over Kioku's shoulder that he felt hot breath blasting the back of his neck.  Filled with foreboding and the sense that he was about to scream, Kioku slowly turned his head around.

A mouth, full of large, jagged teeth half the size of Kioku himself, was less than a foot away from him.  The would-be warrior didn't have to look up to see to whom the fangs belonged; Gogo had read him enough books on dinosaurs for Kioku to know exactly what he was dealing with.

"M-m-maybe if we don't move, it won't see us?" Trunks stammered, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

"Don't be stupid," Kioku snorted at the common misconception.  "That's not true."

"So . . . whadda' we do?"

  


"_RUN!!!!!_"

"Nice plan," Trunks scoffed, giving Kioku a look like he was an escapee from an insane asylum.  

Kioku didn't reply for a minute, concentrating as he was on the more important issue; running fast enough that he wouldn't be eaten by their irate pursuer.  Once he had worked out a rhythm where he could run without stumbling, and his lungs didn't burn too badly for want of oxygen, Kioku inclined his head in Trunks' direction and shot back, "You gots a better idea, Trunks-kun?  Huh?"

Trunks merely grunted in response, and Kioku grinned triumphantly, fangs bared.  Though he was younger, he was better at winning arguments than Trunks was.  Trunks, however, seemed to have forgotten this.  "Bah," he snorted, sounding like his father.  "This is your fault, anyway.  Nice going, Mr. 'My Ears Are Bigger Than Yours' Namekusejin.  How come you didn't hear it?"

"I was listening to you whining like a baby!" Kioku stated matter-of-factly, trying to ignore his friend for the moment. The heavy, panting breaths of the dinosaur seemed to be getting ever-warmer on the back of his neck, and he resisted the urge to look back.

"I'm not a baby!"

Kioku looked at him again to snap off a retort, but as he did so he broke his rhythm.  His booted feet caught on an upturned chunk of rock, and the tiny Namekusejin fell flat on his face.  He had a brief moment of panic, thinking he was going to get eaten, before his head smashed into a boulder and his consciousness faded . . .

******

"Kiku, get up, I'm sorry!"

The voice seemed to be coming from a place thousands of miles away, by the lack of volume.  Kioku groaned, not wanting to wake up, for he was dimly aware that once he did, the pain would come back.  However, the insistent little voice and the feeling of being shaken, kept prodding Kioku to return to consciousness.

"Kiku, I didn't mean to distract you.  I didn't want you to fall.  Get up, please!"

_No_, he thought groggily. _ It hurts out there.  It's nice here_.

"Kiku, Kiku, Kiku!  Wake up!"

_I already said no.  I don't wanna'._

"Get up, get up, get up, get _up_!"

At last, Kioku moaned and opened his eyes, though he regretted it as soon as he did.  His head felt like a watermelon that had been stepped on, and he pressed a hand to his forehead.  His right shoulder was hurting quite badly, too, and he couldn't feel his arm.  "Ughh," he muttered.

"Kiku!  You're okay!" Trunks cried gleefully, and before Kioku had a chance to prepare himself, two short little arms wrapped themselves around his neck in a vice grip.  "You scared me, you big poo head!" Trunks continued, "I thought you was dead!"

"Get off," Kioku grunted, trying unsuccessfully to pull Trunks away.  "You're hurting me!"

  


Immediately, Trunks backed off, and when Kioku's vision stopped looking like he was underwater, he could see Trunks kneeling in the sand, wiping his watery eyes.  His dusty face was already streaked with tear trails, and Kioku was surprised.  He hadn't seen Trunks cry in a long time.  "What happened?" he rose unsteadily to his feet, his legs all shaky.  He bet he looked like the drunk man he and Trunks had seen in the city one time.

"You fell, and the dinosaur almost gots you!" Trunks explained, still rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.  He didn't even bother to deny that he had been crying.  "But somethin' happened and I killed it.  With an energy blast.  I . . . I fried it all up like a - a chicken!" he glanced around dubiously.  "I was hungry, but not _that_ hungry.  There's lotsa' meat to eat up now."

Kioku was still not quite coherent, and he wobbled a bit when he tried to walk.  "My head hurts," he complained, and he finally took his hand off his forehead — and blanched when he saw that his fingers were covered in a sticky, violet liquid.

"ACKK!" he screeched, wiping his hand on his pants.  He had sudden flashback of slipping on Papa's heart two years ago, but he hurriedly pushed it away before he could throw up.  "I blooded!  I blooded!  I'm leaking!"

Trunks got a funny look, and he blinked a few times before talking.  "I wouldn't worry about your head, Kiku.  Um . . . your arm is . . . um . . . worse."

Kioku frowned, puzzled, cocking his head to one side.  "It doesn't hurt."

"I know," Trunks scratched his head, and the look on his face was like he didn't want to say something, but knew he had to.  "Um . . . just look at it."

Obligingly, Kioku glanced down at his arm — and nearly collapsed in shock.  His armour was cracked and the spandex torn . . . and below his shoulder, Kioku could see the ground.  He tried to lift his right hand to his face, but no limb rose in response to the action.  His right arm was gone.  "I gots no arm!" 

Kioku placed his good hand on the stub of his arm, feeling sick to his stomach to feel the blood slowly oozing out.  "Ewwww . . ." he clasped his fingers over the remains of his limb.  "Wh-what happened?"

"You fell, and you hit your head on that rock," Trunks explained, carefully avoiding looking at Kioku's injuries.  "And then the dinosaur came and it . . ." he scrunched up his face like a little prune, "It bit your arm off.  It was gonna' eat you all up, but then I fried it nice and crispy," his horror evaporated for a second, and he drew himself up with pride.  "You shoulda' seen it, Kiku!  I used little energy blasts when I trained with Papa, but this one was _huge_!"

"Heh," Kioku laughed back, and looked down at his shoulder again.  The gaping wound had closed over, the bleeding stopped.  "That's kinda' ewwy," he said, finally swallowing his revulsion.  "I wonder how I make it grow back?"

Trunks slapped himself on the forehead repeatedly, muttering, "Dummy!" over and over.  "I forgot you could do that.  Ahh, if I remembered that I wouldn't'a' been so scared."

"I don't know how to do it, though," Kioku shrugged, the gesture feeling kind of funny with only one arm.  "Maybe I'll remember later," he rotated his shoulder slowly, finding that the pain had died down to a dull throb, and he knew even that would fade in time.  "Where's the dinosaur now?"

"Behind a big rock over there," Trunks trotted over to a large boulder, and Kioku followed.  The sight that awaited him caused Kioku to turn away abruptly, his hands over his mouth as he fought the urge to gag.  Stumbling away from the site on weak legs, Kioku managed to get a few metres away before plunking down on the ground. 

Trunks came back, looking confused, and he sat beside Kioku.  "What's the matter?"

"How can you _eat_ that?" Kioku sputtered, still feeling ill.  "It's dead!"

"You want me to eat it alive?" Trunks cocked an eyebrow.  "That's even grosser."

  


"Why do you have to eat dead things at all?" was the anguished reply.  "Just eat plants!"

Trunks paused for a moment, then he shook his head.  "It's a desert, Kiku.  I hafta' eat animals, 'cause there are no plants.  You can stay in that cave over there while I eat it, if you want," he pointed to a large opening in the cliff above them, one that had previously escaped Kioku's notice.

"Okay," a little queasily, Kioku staggered to his feet and walked to the cliff face, where he stared at the daunting rock in front of him for a few seconds.  "All right, Kiku, you can do it," he told himself firmly, reaching out with his small hand and gripping a chunk of stone, slowly pulling himself up.

It was more difficult than he had thought it would be with only one arm, but Kioku was able to find good footholds and could keep himself balanced for the second or two that it took for him to switch his hand position.  And strange as the idea seemed at first, Kioku got the impression that someone had already cut hand- and footholds into the cliff some time ago.

At last, his muscles burning, left arm shaking, Kioku reached the cave.  He collapsed on the floor, panting, not caring how hard the ground was, or that pieces of rock were sticking into his back — all he wanted to do was rest.  He stared at the ceiling for a while, watching a tiny lizard dart about, slipping through cracks and crevices, and Kioku smiled a little.  He liked lizards.  This one was green, like he was, and he wondered for a second if Namekusejins were related to Earth lizards.  Probably not.

The little reptile skittered across the roof of the cave, making its way to the far wall, and Kioku followed it with his eyes until the lizard disappeared into a small hole.  "Hey!" Kioku exclaimed, crawling on his knees and one hand to the crevice.  "Come back here, mister lizard!" 

The lizard didn't obey, so Kioku stuck his arm in the hole and thrashed his hand around, trying to find it.  He didn't, but his fingers brushed something else — curiously, Kioku closed his hand over the object and drew it out.  It was a notebook, similar to the kind Mama used to use to teach Gogo his schoolwork, but the symbol on the front was way different.  Kioku couldn't read very well yet, but he recognized the character as one that Gogo drew all the time: _Ma_, meaning devil, or demon.  That was Papa Piccolo-san's signature.  Below it, a little smaller, was the character _Han_, which Gogo used as his.

His interest now piqued to the fullest, Kioku opened the book.  The pages crackled like they were a few years old and hadn't been opened in a while, but they weren't _too_ too old.  They didn't smell musty or anything.  The letters written on the pages were scrawled in a childish hand, but with a neatness not usually present in a four-year-old's handwriting.

Kioku stared at the writing, trying to decipher it.  He could read a little, since Gogo and Mama often read him books before bed, and he could recognize a few words.  He also knew that Gogo had taught himself to read when he had been Kioku's age, and the little Namekusejin had always held his brother in high esteem for that.

Well.  If Gogo could do it, he could do it, too.  Gogo might be a genius, but Kioku was . . . um . . . green.  Hey, that had to count for something, right?  Even if it didn't, he was Piccolo-san's kid, and Papa had once told him that Piccolo-san was the smartest of all the Z-senshi.  Kioku bet that _he_ knew how to read.

The fighter-to-be forgot all about his exhausting climb, and the charred remains of the dinosaur on the ground below him, as he settled down on his stomach with the book a few inches away from his face.  Kioku squinted at the characters, trying to figure out what they said.  He could pick up some words here and there, and was able to decipher more by filling in the gaps.  After an indeterminate amount of time, Kioku let out a yell of triumph and danced around the cave on his toes, flipping cartwheels before he smacked into the wall.

"I did it, I did it," he crowed from his awkward position, splayed upside down against the wall.  "I read a whole page!"

After a few minutes of cackling delightedly to himself, Kioku crawled back to the abandoned book and stuck his nose in the pages again.  He decided to start from the beginning and read through until Trunks came up . . .

  


When the lavender-haired demi-Saiyajin poked his head into the cave some time later, Kioku pounced on him.  "Whaa!" Trunks screeched as he and Kioku tumbled about the cave, rolling around and smacking into rocks.  "What's going on?" he demanded, pushing Kioku off him.

"I read some of Gogo's book," Kioku declared proudly, holding it up.  "And he talks about what Papa Piccolo-san did to train him.  We can learn about training in here!  It gots sparring, and energy beams, an' all sortsa' stuff in it.  We'll be super people in no time!!"

"Wahoo!" Trunks shouted, and now it was his turn to throw himself on Kioku.  The two of them tussled playfully until they were both out of breath, and they lay on the ground, panting heavily.  

"_Jinzouningen_, here we come," Kioku said, grinning.  He looked over at Trunks, who lay with his arms outstretched, face turned upwards.  "We'll be home soon, right, Trunks-kun?"

Trunks nodded, and he chucked Kioku on the cheek lightly.  "Oh yeah.  Once I become a Super Saiyajin, I know we'll be ready to defeat 'em.  We'll _decimate_ 'em!"

A short pause ensued, then Kioku piped up, "Trunks-kun?  What does 'decimate' mean?"

"Uhhh . . ." Trunks opened and shut his mouth a few times soundlessly, and Kioku wondered if he even _knew_ what the word meant.  "Papa used to say it."

"That doesn't tell me what it means," Kioku propped himself up on an elbow and peered at him skeptically.  "Do you even _know_?"

"Of course I know!" Trunks retorted, but a funny glint in his eyes indicated otherwise.  Kioku crossed his arms, sitting up, and Trunks immediately stammered, "It - it means . . . um . . . it's something you do to bad people.  You see, the first part of the word, 'dec', sounds like . . . um . . . 'desk' . . . and the 'im' sounds like 'in' . . . so . . . uh . . . decimate means . . . um . . . to turn people into desks!"

Kioku stared at him, one eyebrow ridge raised.  "Uh-huh.  You made that up.  Admit it!"

"Did not!"

"Did too."

"Did _not_!  The _jinzouningen_ are made of metal, and desks are made of metal.  So there!  Stupid!"

"My desk is made of wood."

"Well . . ." Trunks glanced around in a panic, trying to find a way out.  "All the _smart_ people know that the _good_ desks are made of metal.  So you don't know anything.  You think just 'cause you're green you're cooler than me."

Kioku laughed, and he rubbed the back of his head with one hand.  "I thought I was."

"Oh shut up," Trunks hit him good-naturedly, "You're just a dummy.  —'mon, let's spar before we go to sleep.  You can tell me about Piccolo-san and his training tomorrow."

"Okay!" grinning, Kioku pounced.

"WHAA!  I wasn't ready yet!!!"

******

  


A/N: Again ... heh. Uh, the next chapter will be after they're done training - and there's a 5-year gap between the chapters, so once again, don't get confused. All right? Well .... see you in February! Next time: the kids vs. the jinzouningen!   
  


Oh yeah! I've started a mailing list for my stories. If you want to be on it, either e-mail me or mention it in a review or something. I've said this in my bio', but I don't know how many people actually read those. 


	5. I Wanna Go Home -- The Obstacle

Disclaimer: I don't own DB/Z/GT.  I'm on a time limit right now – make up your own witty line.  Merry Christmas!

A/N: I'm SO sorry this was late – extraneous circumstances had a hand in it . . . I hate it when real life gets in the way of my writing. Stupid life.  Anyhow…. This chapter is going to have an R rating near the end of it – just in case you've missed the wonderful, characteristic of me violence, here's some for you!

So. I made this chapter extra long for you guys, to make up for it, okay?  Love ya'!

Deeper Than Colour — The Kioku Story

**Chapter Five: I Wanna' Go Home — The Obstacle**

"You know what?" Briefs Trunks remarked idly, as though the matter was of no great importance, though Son Kioku could hear in his voice that it was no minor matter.  He and Kioku were lying on their backs on the desert floor, looking up at the twinkling stars.

"Nope," Kioku replied.  "You gonna' tell me?"

Trunks sighed, wistfully and with a trace of regret.  "I don't know what Dad looks like anymore.  I don't remember.  Do you?"

Kioku thought for a minute, straining his memory for any trace of the proud Saiyajin.  As much as he struggled, however, he drew a blank.  "No, Trunks-kun, I don't.  I'm sorry."

His friend shook his head, and the starlight glittering on his face made his features seem much more chiselled.  "'S'okay.  I think he had black hair, but . . . that's all I know.  And I know he was strong.  And . . . and I think he was kind of angry all the time."

"Yeah.  I think I remember him yelling," Kioku glanced at Trunks, and saw that the demi-Saiyajin's mouth tightened.  "That's not much to remember, is it?  It's been a long time, though."

"Seven years since Dad died," Trunks agreed, nodding slowly. Kioku felt a pang of pain inside him, though he wasn't quite sure why.  "And five years since I've seen Mom.  I don't really remember what she looks like, either," the pitch of his voice raised, making him sound a little panicked.  "She had . . . she had blue hair, or green . . . something like that.  And blue eyes.  Darker than mine.  And she was always sad.  I don't remember her smiling much," he pressed a hand to his forehead, digging his fingers into his scalp.

"Every time I try to think of Mom, I can't," Trunks continued, helplessly, "It's like . . . I can see her hair, and her clothes, but . . . her face . . . it's . . . it's just a blank.  I don't remember what she looks like at all," he pounded a fist into the ground, and his hand split the rock in pieces.  "I don't want to forget Mom!  I want to remember her!"

"I know," Kioku's voice softened as he relived the pain of his own fading memory.  "When I look at a picture of Mom, then I know what she looks like, but if I try to see her myself, I can't."

"You have a picture of her?" Trunks sat up abruptly, eyebrows raised.  "Aw, why didn't I think of that?  Can I see?"

Kioku hesitated, not wanting to admit that he had been sentimental enough to bring a photograph of his family five years ago.  It was hard to tell when Trunks would decide to make fun of him or not.  He didn't mind being made fun of in most cases, but not in instances of such a personal nature; his family was a sensitive spot.  Kioku had taken to differentiating between his two fathers; instead of calling them both "Papa" as he had done in the past, he had begun referring to Piccolo, his blood parent, as "Father," and Goku, the only father he knew, as "Dad."  He didn't prefer one over the other, but felt his relationship with Piccolo, if he had ever known him, would have been a more formal one.

"You're not gonna' laugh?" Kioku asked warily.

Trunks shook his head vehemently, and he stuck out his hand for Kioku to shake.  "N'uh-uh.  I miss my Mom, too, ya' know.  Can I just see the picture?  Maybe it'll help me remember."

Warily, Kioku grasped Trunks' hand, and Trunks' fingers closed over his own in a promise to stand by his word.  "Okay," Kioku dug in a pocket of his breastplate and withdrew a few worn photographs.  The crease lines were cracked and grey from the photos being folded and refolded so many times, but Kioku didn't care.  "Here," he handed them to Trunks, scooting close to him so he could look over his shoulder.

  


The first photo was a candid, taken by Gohan before Kioku had been born.  He had no idea what the situation had been but Dad was kissing Mom, neither of them aware of the presence of the camera.  The funny part was the background, where Father was nearly killing himself with laughter.  For once, Trunks made no snide remark about being "kissy-kissy" — instead, he just smiled and went on to the next picture.  

Kioku didn't know who had snapped that photograph, for Dad, Mom, Gohan, and Father were all in it.  Dad had one arm around Mom and one hand on Gohan's shoulder, all three smiling.  Father was trying to get away, his fangs bared, but Gohan was clinging tightly to his arm, not allowing him to escape.  Gohan was laughing a little, eyes sparkling, looking happier than Kioku ever remembered him to be in his lifetime.  Trunks got a good chuckle out of that one, as well.

The next photograph had been taken by one of Kioku's parents, probably secretly, since the subject of the photo was Father and Gohan.  Father was sitting on Gohan's bed, holding Gohan on his lap, and Gohan was hugging him.  Kioku guessed that Gohan had had a nightmare or something, for a similar event had been recorded in Gohan's journal, the one that Kioku now kept in a capsule in his pocket.

The last picture showed Mom sitting in a rocking chair, holding a tiny, green infant wrapped up in a blanket.  Dad stood behind the chair, his hands on Mom's shoulders, and both of them were looking at the baby and smiling.  Kioku liked that photo, because it was the only one he had with himself and his father in the same picture.

"Here," Trunks handed the photographs back to him, an uncharacteristically solemn expression darkening his face.  "I wish I had pictures of my Mom . . . it might be easier."

Kioku wasn't really listening; he was staring at the group photograph again, feeling like a knife was stabbing him repeatedly in the heart as he gazed at his mother.  Her face was more faded than the rest of the picture, since Kioku always ran his fingers over it whenever he looked at it.  "I remember little stuff about Mom," he spoke up quietly, "Like her smile, and how it always made me feel better.  And how her voice was always so quiet and sad.  And . . . and how - how she loved Dad so much," he sniffed, and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes.  "But I don't know what she looks like except when I see the pictures."

"Yeah."

Kioku tucked the photographs back inside his armour, and he leaned back, resting his head on his one arm.  "Trunks-kun?"

"Yeah?"

"Do . . . do you remember how Dad died?" Kioku shuddered, and he sat up abruptly, wrapping his arm around himself.  It didn't do anything against the sudden chill that ran through him, but it helped him feel more safe.  "I just tried to remember, and I couldn't.  I know the _jinzouningen_ killed my Dad, and your Dad, and their friends, but . . . that's it."

Trunks scrunched up his face and balled his hands into fists, concentrating with the full force of his mind.  Kioku watched intently as a light blue aura surrounded his friend, pulsating in the blackness of night.  After a few minutes, Trunks opened his eyes and shook his head, eyes glimmering.  "No.  I don't.  I never thought about that before, Kiku!  I - I just always thought I'd remember, but I don't."

Kioku chewed on his lower lip, inwardly annoyed that he still indulged in such a childish habit, but unable to stop himself.  It gave him a funny sense of security to do so.  "I don't even know what Dad's friends were named anymore, or what they looked like."

"They were humans," Trunks declared decisively.  "I know that much.  And they . . . they died pretty messy, I think.  I think Dad died kinda' gross, too, but I'm not sure.  Hey," he looked up suddenly, curiously, and cocked his head to one side.  "How come you can 'member all that stuff from Piccolo-san and his dad, but not your life?"

"I dunno'," Kioku shrugged elaborately.  "Never thought about it.  You want me to try?"

  


"It can't hurt," Trunks pointed out.  

Kioku forced himself to quit biting his lip, and he pressed his fingers to his temples.  "Okay, here goes," he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and began focussing his mind energy, humming loudly.  He didn't know why he hummed when he concentrated, but Daddy Piccolo used to do it and that was enough for Kioku.

"Cool," he heard Trunks whisper, and Kioku bit back a smile.  He kept concentrating, his humming growing louder, until it overpowered all the sounds around him.  Trunks had once commented on how funny it was that such a little kid could make that loud a noise, but Kioku had just rolled his eyes and ignored him.

"Hey, wait!" Kioku's eyes snapped open, and he looked at Trunks sheepishly.  "What am I s'posed to be remembering again?  I was concentrating real hard, but I forgot what I was supposed to concentrate about."

Trunks slapped his forehead with his palm, the sound echoing loudly through the desert terrain, and he nearly fell over.  "Kiku, you've been out in the sun too long.  See if you can remember how our Dads died."

"I knew that."

"Yup, I know."

Kioku resumed his humming and concentrating, trying to reach the shadowy recesses in his mind where the elusive memories lay dormant.  He'd never tried anything like this before, really, so it was rather strange for him . . . his mind felt almost like a forest through which he was walking, with certain memories lurking behind "trees," just out of sight.  Unconsciously, he started chewing his lip again.

_— Broken concrete, chunks of asphalt all over the street — _

Kioku's head snapped up in surprise at the suddenness of the memory, but he chased it in his mind, not allowing it to escape.

_— Puddles on the road, even though it hadn't rained in more than a week —_

He frowned.  There was something about the puddles . . . he remembered something strange, something . . .__

_— The puddles were red . . . are puddles supposed to be red like that? — _

Kioku shuddered.  _Now_ he remembered . . .__

_— Wondering whose hand that was, lying there on the street, and why there wasn't a body to go with it —_

Kioku whimpered, but kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut.  He had a feeling the memories, however they turned out, were not going to be very pleasant . . . 

_— Kuririn-san's body, lying in a pile of rubble, sides bleeding and head crushed —_

_— Yamucha-san, with no legs and a smashed-up chest — _

_— Tenshinhan-san, a giant hole in his throat, one leg missing —_

_— Half-buried in stones, the broken body of Vegeta-san; no arms, no legs, not even a head . . . just flesh and muscle, with bits of bone and hair here and there . . . not even recognizable as someone who had once been a person —_

_— Gohan, screaming, crying, fists thrown in the air, head back . . . his hair turning yellow, eyes going green —_

_  
_

_— Trunks-kun, coming to fall beside his Dad's body, sobbing, touching the body like he couldn't believe it had happened —_

Kioku clutched his forehead, wanting to stop — he remembered the pain now, what he had felt . . . he didn't want to relive it all over again.  It was too late now, though — the floodgates had opened and there was no way to stop it.  "No . . ."

_— And then, in the middle of all the bodies, was Dad . . . his eyes wide open and gross —_

_— The enormous hole in his chest, empty and bloody —_

_— Himself falling, slipping on something wet and slimy — _

_— Staring in horror at his father's heart, lying on the cement — _

_— Crying, curling up next to Dad, singing softly . . . — _

"Hey, uh . . . Kiku?  I don't wanna' know anymore, not if it hurts that much," Trunks' voice brought Kioku to reality. 

With a gasp that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Kioku snapped his eyes open.  Trunks was chewing nervously on his fingernails (his equivalent habit to Kioku's lip-biting), his eyes flicking everywhere at once as he fought not to look at his best friend.  AWas it really that bad?" the demi-Saiyajin asked softly, after a few silent moments.

"Um, it was . . . it was pretty awful," Kioku released his breath in a long, shuddering sigh, not at all surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks.  He lifted his hand, noticing it was shaking, and he clutched his knee tightly in an effort to stop the trembling.  "Kuririn-san's head was squished, Yamucha-san —"

"Don't!" Trunks cried sharply, turning away from him, "Don't tell me that.  Just . . . what happened to my Dad?"

Kioku's lip began quivering, and inwardly he cursed himself for his weakness — even if he was only eight years old, he was supposed to be a warrior, not a snivelling infant.  "He - he got blasted.  When we got there, I could b-barely tell it was him," he squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the expression of anguish he knew would be contorting Trunks' features.  "It's kinda' fuzzy 'cause I was only little, so I might've —"

"Don't try to make me feel better," Trunks' voice, though low and hoarse, was gruff and perfectly in control.  Kioku looked at him, and he had to force himself not to jump backward; Trunks' face was cold and expressionless, his mouth set in a thin line, eyes dead.  Kioku got a funny feeling in his stomach — empty, like there was a hole inside him.  Nine-year-old boys shouldn't have that look on their faces.

"Trunks-kun?" Kioku ventured timidly, not wanting his friend to snap at him.  He knew Trunks never _meant_ to be mean, but sometimes the boy could get quite harsh when he was upset.  Kioku figured it was a trait he'd inherited from one — or both — of his parents.  "How long do you think it will take for us to be strong enough to kill the _jinzouningen_?"

Trunks snorted, flopping back to the ground and crossing his arms over his chest.  "Years, probably," he thumbed his nose at no one in particular, and Kioku wondered if he was doing it at himself.  "We're not gettin' anywhere with this!  We're not old enough — even with Piccolo-san's training methods and stuff, it'll take a long time," propping himself up on one elbow, Trunks glanced at him.  "Why?"

Kioku scratched his head between his antennae, trying to find the right words that would express what he wanted to say without sounding too childish.  Being Namekusejin, Kioku appeared to be a few years older than Trunks, but his mind was still one of an eight-year-old — not including, of course, memories from four other Namekusejins, as well.  Even if he looked more than ten years old, Kioku didn't feel like it.

  


"I don't want you to laugh at me, but . . . I won't blame you if you do . . .  I guess I am a little silly . . ." Kioku blew out his breath in an explosive sigh of frustration, annoyed at himself for his inability to speak coherently.  "Trunks-kun, I - I wanna' go home."

Trunks' eyes widened, glistening a bright silver in the light of the stars.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Kioku shook his head.  "Don't make fun of me.  I miss Mom, and Gohan, and Gram'pa, and Bulma-san . . . we're not gonna' get strong enough training ourselves.  We need Gohan to help us.  We're not getting anywhere — you said so yourself, Trunks-kun.  We're getting distracted 'cause we miss our family."

He tugged abstractedly on one earlobe, not looking at Trunks.  He didn't know what his friend was thinking, and wasn't exactly sure if he wanted to.  Not if he was going to be made fun of, anyway.  After a few tense seconds of silence, measured by the beating of Kioku's heart, Trunks sighed quietly.

"Y'know what?  You're right.  I'm tired, Kiku . . . tired of training an' training an' never getting anywhere.  I can't even go Super Saiyajin yet!" he ran his hands through his hair, a bitter expression on his face that Kioku hazily recalled as one he had seen on Gohan's.  "Let's just go back."

Relief and joy cut through the homesickness that had been strangling Kioku for the past six months or so, and he grinned crazily.  "Thanks, Trunks-kun!  Gohan will be a lot stronger now, and it won't bug him to train us anymore!"

Trunks smiled, though it seemed somewhat forced, and he pulled a capsule out of his chest plate.  "We'll go back home tomorrow, okay?"

Kioku hugged himself gleefully, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing.  He was so excited, he thought he was going to burst open like a party balloon filled with too much helium.  "Okay.  'Night, Trunks!"

"Yeah. 'Night," Trunks pressed a button on the capsule, revealing two blankets and pillows, which Kioku had created a few years back.  He handed Kioku his, and the two boys settled down for their last sleep in the desert.

Long after Trunks dozed off, Kioku lay awake staring at the stars, a wide grin creeping across his face until he figured he must look like a maniac.  "I'm going home," he whispered in a singsong, "I'm going home!  I'll see you soon, Mom!"

******

"I bet Bulma-san isn't even going to recognize you with that hair, eh, Trunks-kun?" Kioku kidded him, elbowing him in the side repeatedly.  Kioku's spirits had lightened considerably since the decision to return home, but the now-fresh memory of the massacre hung in his mind like a cloud of despair.  Teasing Trunks was the best way to keep his mind off it.

"What's wrong with it?"  Trunks demanded, lifting a hand to his head self-consciously.  His lavender hair had grown in the five years of training, and now hung down his back.  It was clumsily braided by Kioku (who hadn't much of a clue when it came to that sort of thing, but it was better at it than Trunks), and tied with a length of spandex material torn from one of their sleeves.

Kioku laughed and tweaked the end of Trunks' braid playfully, showing his fangs in a grin as his friend glared at him.  "You look like a . . . a . . . a what is it?  If you're not a boy, you're a . . ."

"A _girl_?!"  Trunks bristled, crossing his arms defensively and looking more than a little embarrassed.  "I do not.  And whadda' you know about 'em anyhow?  You don't even know what they _are_, mister no-gender-Namekusejin.  Bah!"

"Your hair looks like Mom's hair," Kioku replied matter-of-factly, forcibly restraining a laugh.  "And Mom's a girl.  She braids her hair like that when she goes to bed," unable to resist, he batted his eyelashes like he vaguely remembered Bulma-san doing once.  "You look very _pretty_!"

  


Trunks swallowed, and for a second it looked as though he was about to be ill.  His face paled, and he glanced at his hair venomously.  "Cut it off," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"You heard me.  You can cut down trees and rocks with your hand — you can cut my braid off," Trunks turned his back to Kioku, flipping his hair over his shoulder.  "I'm not going home looking like a girl.  It's bad enough that my hair is purple.  And it was your idea to braid my hair anyway!"

"Only 'cause you didn't want it getting in the way," Kioku sighed, wondering what the big deal was; he actually didn't see the difference between boys and girls, but apparently it was insulting to be called of the opposite gender. Raising his hand, Kioku chopped through the braid at the base of Trunks' neck, then held the severed tassel like a war trophy.  "All done," he declared.

"Good," Trunks shook his head vigorously like a wet dog, his hair now falling just above his shoulders, and he yanked the strip of spandex from the end of his braid, tying his hair back in a careless ponytail.  Several loose strands fell around his face, but he looked much better than before. "There."

"Let's keep going," Kioku decided, and, not knowing what else to do with it, encapsulated Trunks' hair when the demi-Saiyajin wasn't looking, then quietly slipped it in Trunks' pocket.  Maybe Bulma-san would like to keep it; Kioku had the odd idea that mothers liked to do silly things like that.

"You know what would be fun?" Trunks spoke up after another hour of walking, and Kioku was immediately put on guard.  Trunks only used that tone of voice when he was planning something, and while Kioku enjoyed participating in Trunks' schemes, he didn't want to begin one when they were only a week's walk from home.

"What?" Kioku took the bait warily.

"We should fly home.  That would be so much faster!" Trunks' eyes glittered, and he waved his arms frantically, gesticulating wildly as he spoke.  "If we _flew_ back, Gohan-san would be so impressed with us, he'd forget all about us running away!  He'd be so happy we taught ourselves to fly that he'd _wanna_' train us!"

"I just wanna' go home," Kioku disagreed, feeling weariness creep over him, invading his muscles and dampening any enthusiasm he might have for following Trunks on one of his odd ideas.  "It took a long time for Gohan to learn how to fly.  And . . . besides . . . Father taught him by throwing him off a cliff."

"There's lotsa' cliffs around here."

"Trunks-kun!  You gotta' be kidding!"

No reply.

"R-right?"

******

The wind whistled ominously, whipping dust and leaves about in a crazy dance around the two children.  It was still burning hot in the desert, the sun beating down like a broken heater gone haywire, but Kioku shivered nonetheless.  He nudged a rock over the edge of the cliff with his toe, and shuddered as he watched it fall for hundreds of feet into the canyon below.

"Well, this _might_ be fun," Kioku admitted, attempting to swallow around the rock firmly lodged in his throat.  He sneaked a glance at Trunks, who was having difficulty keeping the nervousness from flitting about his own features.  "_If_ we don't smash into a bzillion pieces when we hit the ground."

  


"Quit it," Trunks snapped shakily, "So . . . who wants to go first?"

Kioku opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying to drum up the courage to volunteer, but at the same time afraid to say no.  He didn't want to voluntarily leap off a cliff to the rocks below, but was afraid to _admit_ to cowardice.  Just as he prepared to suggest that Trunks make the first attempt at flight, a mental image of Father came to Kioku's mind; of the tall, proud Namekusejin hiding behind Gohan, shaking his head vehemently and refusing to try something new.  It was such a ludicrous thought that Kioku burst out laughing, his body trembling as he struggled to control his convulsions.

Trunks evidently thought he was laughing at him, for the boy's eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed in a defensive scowl.  "What's so funny?"

"Not you," Kioku pursed his lips to stop laughing, but a few giggles escaped anyhow.  "I was just thinking how scared I am, and I tried to picture Father being as wimpy as I'm being, and it was just a funny picture, that's all.  Father wasn't afraid of anything, except Gohan dying, so I was tryin' to see what it would be like if he was frightened of jumping off a cliff . . ." he broke off, chuckling.

Fortunately, Trunks found the humour in the situation, and the lavender-haired boy let out a dry laugh of his own.  "Yeah, I don't think Piccolo-san would be scared of this, even if he _couldn't_ fly!" he paused, then eyed Kioku hopefully.  "Does that mean you'll go first?"

_No kid of mine would chicken out because of something stupid like learning to fly!_

The inner voice startled Kioku, and he jumped a little.  He'd been doing that a lot over the past year or so; hearing voices as though Father was actually speaking to him.  All along he knew it was merely a product of his mind, caused by having so many memories of his father that he had begun to think like Piccolo had, but it was still slightly disconcerting when it happened.  "Yeah," Kioku clenched his fists, hoping that the discomfort brought by his nails digging into his flesh would distract him from his fear.  It felt like his internal organs had disappeared. 

Trunks gave him a relieved thumb's-up, and he scratched his head.  "Okay, you jump, and I'll count to ten and jump after you.  'Kay?  That way you won't be too far ahead of me."

"Okay," Kioku was proud of himself, for his voice came out sounding clear and controlled — if not exactly brave, at least it wasn't shaky.  "Um, I'll jump first . . . count to five for me."

"Five . . ."

_I don't wanna' do this . . . _

"Four . . ."

_I'm scared . . ._

"Three . . ."

_I'm gonna' die, and then I won't see Mom for a long time!_

"Two . . ."

_No, no, no, no, no!_

"One!"

_Don't wanna' don't wanna' don'twanna'dontwannadontwanna — _

  


Before he could even finish his mental scream, Kioku found himself falling; somewhere, while his brain was paralyzed, his body had taken over.  Kioku could feel the wind running over his body like fire, and he only had time to half-complete another thought:

_Maybe this was a bad — _

WHAM!!

Pain slammed into him as Kioku's body smashed into the ground, and though it felt like all his bones were broken, he knew, somehow, that he was fine.  "Maybe Trunks-kun did better," he muttered . . .

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

SLAM!!

_Or not_ . . .

Kioku found himself laughing as he slowly picked himself up, dusting his clothing off.  It was surprising to discover that he didn't even have a scratch on him; and, after shooting a concerned glance Trunks' way, he discovered the grumbling demi-Saiyajin was unscathed, as well.

"I guess this'll take more time than I thought," Trunks conceded grudgingly, patting his armour and sending clouds of dust flying.  "We're not hurt, though.  Our energy shields must be getting pretty good."

"Guess so.  Does that mean we're going home now?"

Trunks lifted an eyebrow incredulously, his face a perfect picture of polite disdain.  "Are you kidding?  A few more falls and we'll be flying in no time!"

Kioku threw up his arm in exasperation, but knew there was no arguing with Trunks when he wanted something as bad as this.  "Okay, fine.  But if we miss supper 'cause it took us hours an' hours to learn to fly, then don't complain to me if you're hungry.  'Cause I'm not listening!"

"Okay, I won't."

******

"I _tolja_' it wouldn't take very long," Trunks bragged, his expression gloating as he and Kioku soared over the broken terrain, high above the ground, a mere three hours after their first disastrous attempt at flying.

"I know, I know," Kioku rolled his eyes, not really listening.  Trunks _had_ been right, after all, so Kioku supposed he was allowed his moment of glory.  "It's fun, you're right."

"It's kinda' cold, though," Trunks remarked reluctantly, "Too much wind."

Kioku flared his ki so he was surrounded by a bright, white flame.  "Just power up, silly.  That keeps you warm.  'Least, that's what Gohan used to do when he was cold."

Trunks followed Kioku's advice, and soon he flashed his friend a thumb's up.  "Thanks, Kiku!  You're pretty smart, for an alien."

"Thanks a lot.  At least I'm a real alien, not just half of one."

"Hey!"

  


They both laughed, and continued flying.

Kioku wasn't sure how long they flew, but some time later, he saw something on the horizon.  It looked like smoke that came from a smouldering campfire, except on a much larger scale; amorphous, dirty, brownish-black smoke was pouring up from the ground a few miles away, and Kioku cocked a brow ridge curiously.  For a campfire to make _that_ much smoke, it would have to be the size of an entire city!

A _city_?!

"Trunks-kun!" Kioku shouted, slamming to a halt in the air.  His companion shot past him in confusion before turning around and flying back.  "Lookit the smoke!  I think the _jinzouningen_ just attacked a city!"

Trunks followed Kioku's wavering pointing finger to the site of the destruction, and he shouted a Vegeta-san word.  "I think you're right.  What do we do?"

"I - I don't know . . . I wanna' go help, but . . ." Kioku chewed his lip, wincing as his fangs bit through the soft flesh and he started bleeding.  "We can't do anything!"

_Light . . . an explosion of light, so startlingly bright that the entire landscape was illuminated to a white glare.  The only sound was that of an enormous energy blast being powered up, drowning out the noise of a small boy whimpering._

_He looked around, saw Gohan huddled in the middle of the battlefield, crouching with his hands held in front of his face.  Like that would be able to protect him!  Paralyzed with fear, he watched as Nappa brought his arm back, one hand glowing._

_Fear?  Why was he afraid?  The blast wasn't pointed at _him_!  It was pointed at Gohan — and Gohan was afraid enough that he didn't need anyone else fearing for him._

I have to help.__

_The thought burned through his brain, searing almost to the point of pain, and it surprised him.  Help?  How could he help?  He had already proven he was powerless against the behemoth of a warrior . . . the Saiyajin had shown his brute strength was superior.  What could he do?_

_Memories of Gohan began to flood him, beginning with the child's first day of training to one of the last, and without thinking, he began to run.  He didn't care that he might — or probably would — die.  He didn't care that he might not be able to help at all.  He didn't care.  He didn't CARE!_

_He couldn't stand there and not do _anything_ . . . no matter what the outcome, he had to help . . ._

Kioku clenched his jaw firmly, and he looked at Trunks.  He could see his friend was startled by his change of expression, but he barely noticed.  "We've gotta' help anyway," he declared firmly, feeling his heart fluttering in his chest.  He was afraid — deathly afraid — but knew he would never be able to live with himself if he didn't go.  "Father would've gone to help, even if he couldn't win.  We're the only ones around here who have any power to help at all."

Trunks swallowed a few times, obviously petrified, then a determined scowl darkened his features.  "Right.  Let's go!  There's gotta' be some survivors down there somewhere."

As they dove toward the ruined city, Kioku tried to ignore the pounding in his chest, the feeling that his heart was going to explode from fear.  He didn't let himself think of the possible consequences of his actions; didn't allow himself to consider the possibility that one — or both — of them might not make it out alive.

  


He deliberately didn't think of his mother in that situation.  Thinking of Mom's face would definitely _not_ be good.  It would shatter his resolve completely, to picture the way her black eyes would well up with tears, and how she would try to be brave for a few seconds . . . but would soon burst out crying . . .

_Stop it!!_  Kioku told himself firmly.  He didn't need emotions right now.  Attachments were good, yes, but they had no place on the battlefield.  Gohan had written, in his journal, that Father said emotion and feeling were to be left behind before every battle.  They could be picked up once more afterward, but what was needed in a fight was cold, unhindered calculation.  Rushing into a fight on a blaze of passion would only get you killed.

As soon as he was hovering above the city, Kioku's sharp ears picked up the myriad sounds from the massacre; yells of survivors, agonized weeping . . . the cries of children, buildings collapsing . . . and far away, on the other side of the city, the sounds of energy blasts, screams of pain, and someone laughing hysterically.

His eyes narrowed, and with a sharp nod at Trunks, the Namekusejin child shot to the ground.  He landed quickly, surveying his surroundings, and was able to zone in on the location where most of the people were crying.  A large apartment building was falling apart, and from the number of cries for help coming from it, there were many people still trapped inside.

"C'mon!" Kioku urged Trunks, taking control of the situation.  It was rather surprising, since Trunks had always been the instigator, but Kioku didn't even think about the change in command.  He, with all his memories, had years of combat experience in his mind, whereas Trunks had none.  Trunks dashed forward into the crumbling building, searching for people stuck in the rubble.

Someone shouted at them to get away, that it wasn't safe, but Kioku didn't listen.  He closed his eyes, clenched his fist, and concentrated fiercely, forcing himself to focus his energy until he could almost "see" the scene in his brain.  He manipulated the mental image, lifting broken chunks of concrete and steel with his mind.  Unconsciously, he began to hum, the deep, growling sound running beneath the noises of chaos in the rest of the city.

People around him gasped, and Kioku cracked one eye open.  He had practised with telekinesis before, lifting a reluctant and indignant Trunks several times, and had become quite skillful with manipulating boulders.  The pieces of the apartment building weren't much more difficult, and he managed to toss away loose chunks while keeping the remainder of the building upright.  Sweat beaded up on his forehead and began rolling down his face, but Kioku didn't care.

_Thank you, Father,_ he thought gratefully, remembering how his father had lifted pyramids with his mind.  Kioku was nowhere near that calibre of strength, but the task at hand wasn't particularly hard.

At last, Trunks ran up to him, declaring he had rescued the remaining survivors.  Kioku lowered the apartment to the ground slowly, not allowing it to crash and endanger more people, and once he opened his eyes fully, was knocked over by a crowd of grateful parents and friends.  Everyone thanked him and Trunks, hugging them and patting their heads, wondering at their strength.  Trunks was making faces like someone had thrown up on his food or something, but Kioku didn't really mind.  It was the first time he had ever really been _thanked_ before.

The next instant, the world was ablaze in a flash of yellow, and the distant sound of energy blasts was almost deafening.  Kioku was barely aware of squeezing his eyes shut and erecting a hasty energy shield, trying to ignore the heat that tore at his skin.  Within seconds it was over, and he straightened.

All around him were the disintegrated, mutilated corpses of everyone he had tried to save.  Next to him, Trunks let out a choked whimper and covered his nose; the stench from the mangled bodies was suddenly overwhelming — sharp and pungent and sickening, making Kioku's insides churn.  The smell immediately conjured up dozens of memories associated with that type of carnage, but Kioku shoved them back.

"That was a nice bit of rescuing," said a girl behind him, "Too bad they all died anyway.  You shouldn't have gotten involved, brats."

  


Kioku jumped and spun around, skidding on the loose asphalt, and his breath was instantly stolen from him.  A dark-haired boy and a blonde-haired girl stood casually on the sidewalk, smirking confidently.  Kioku recognized that look from Father's memory — it was the one Vegeta-san had worn, when he had first come to the planet to kill everyone.  It was the smile of somebody who knew he couldn't be beaten.  A chill ran through him, paralyzing his muscles, and Kioku shivered.  "You're the _jinzouningen_," he hissed.  He heard Trunks suck in his breath sharply, uttering a virulent curse.

The boy — #17, Kioku remembered . . . his name, if that's what it was, was #17 — raised an eyebrow.  "My, my.  Such filthy language for a little kid!  Something's got you upset — what would that be?  You're not bothered by a little death, are you?"

"A little death?!" Trunks screamed, unable to control himself, and Kioku watched as his energy aura flared up, first white, then blue, then finally, yellow.  "A little death?  You killed a city!  You killed _thousands_ of cities!"

"I know.  What's it to you?" #17 smiled, and waved his hands at what was left of the bodies.  "Were they friends of yours?"

"They don't have to be friends of mine," Trunks snarled, but Kioku's vocal cords were still locked in fear.  He wanted to tell Trunks to shut up, but he couldn't.  "I don't care who you killed.  It's not right!"

The girl, #18, took a step backwards, and she peered at Kioku intently.  He was incredibly uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and suddenly #18 was directly in front of him, having phased in and out of view in less than a second.  She grabbed him by one ear, lifting him off the ground to be on her eye level, and Kioku winced.  The ears were the second-most sensitive part of a Namekusejin's body, after the antennae.  She frowned thoughtfully, ignoring Kioku's terror, then grinned.

"I knew I recognized you.  You're that kid who showed up after a battle a few years ago," she glanced over her shoulder at her brother.  "Hey, #17, don't you remember?  These are the kids who came after we killed Son Goku and his friends.  I think the human is Vegeta's brat, and this green freak . . . who knows, but he was with them."

Kioku scowled, but #17 spoke up, interrupting him before he was able to say anything.  "Yeah, I guess the purple-haired kid does look like Vegeta.  Yuck.  Poor him!" both _jinzouningen_ chuckled at that, ignoring the glares both children were sending them.

#18 dropped Kioku rather unceremoniously, but to his credit Kioku managed to land on his feet.  "So what do you want, anyway?" #18 asked with an almost congenial inquisitiveness that Kioku would have believed, had her eyes not snapped with malice.  "If you're trying to find a way to see your fathers again, we can arrange that."

"No.  We wanna' fight you," Trunks declared arrogantly in a mannerism that briefly sparked Kioku's memory of Vegeta-san.  "Unless you're scared."

_Trunks-kun, don't push it . . . _Kioku warned his friend silently, watching the _jinzouningen_'s faces.  #17 merely stared at Trunks like the demi-Saiyajin had miraculously spouted a third eye or something, and #18's eyebrows lifted, one lip twitching as she fought not to laugh again.  Kioku, despite the fear hammering in his chest, was surprised — this was not how he had pictured the _jinzouningen_ to be.  They were harsh, merciless killers.  They weren't supposed to have a sense of humour!

"Well, I won't argue with that," #17 raised an eyebrow, glancing at his sister, who shrugged in reply.  "Almost nobody's fought back in years . . . even if we can kill you in two seconds, it might be fun to play around with you a little."

Kioku gulped, hearing the invitation to battle hanging in the air like a wet blanket.  Nodding to Trunks, Kioku dropped into a fighting stance, aware that his friend was doing the same.  #18 stepped in front of Kioku, while #17 moved in position by Trunks, but Kioku forced himself to ignore Trunks and his opponent.  He had to focus on #18, and #18 only, or he would die.

If he didn't die anyway. 

  


_Darn me for wanting to be a hero like Dad,_ Kioku thought bitterly.  _Well, I guess we'll see if I'm good enough . . ._

He could tell #18 was waiting for him to make the first move, so Kioku stopped delaying the inevitable.  He brought his energy to his hand, spreading his fingers apart, arm over his head.  His hand began sparking, and a brilliant white light surrounded his palm.  It was difficult to perform this energy attack with only one limb, but five years of practice had allowed Kioku to perform the attack quite well.

"Ma ..."

#18 quirked an eyebrow and waited patiently. 

"Sen ..."

Kioku growled, annoyed that #18 didn't seem to be taking this seriously.  Just because he was a kid!

"Ko ..."

#18 examined her fingernails as though they were the most interesting things in the world, only glancing up briefly.

"HAAA!!!"

Kioku thrust his hand forward in a downward motion, fingers together, releasing the whitish-blue blast like a tidal wave of energy, straight towards his opponent.  Once the blast had been fired, Kioku sank to his knees, panting heavily.  He knew it wasn't exactly intelligent to expend so much energy on the initial attack, but he was also aware that beginning with weak blasts wouldn't work on the _jinzouningen_.  He only hoped Gohan's childhood attack was strong enough . . .

The dust cleared, revealing a _very_ bored-looking #18, who was shaking her head in disapproval.  "I can't believe you thought such a weak technique would work on me," she sighed.  "Maybe if you were more powerful, it might be able to dirty my clothing or something, but not at this pathetic level.  I thought I'd at least be able to play with you, but" — she shrugged, a "what can you do?" type of look on her face — "I guess I'll just have to kill you."

She flew at him, and her fist connected with his jaw with crushing force.  Kioku was propelled backwards into a half-toppled apartment, and as he hit the wall he could feel his jaw hanging out of place.  He winced, blinking back tears, but the injury was less severe than some of the ones he'd obtained in his sparring sessions.  Grimacing, Kioku reached up and reset his jaw, hearing the sickening _crack_, but ignoring it.

"Well, well.  You aren't dead after all," #18 reached down and picked him up by the shoulder strap of his armour, studying him with that cold, calculating gaze of hers.  "I guess I should give you a little credit — even if that was one of my weaker punches."

Kioku scowled at her and dealt her a kick in the stomach, but all the _jinzouningen_ did was cock an eyebrow at him.  "Ouch, that hurt," she remarked sarcastically, "Here.  Let me teach you how to do that properly!" holding Kioku at eye level, #18 smiled ferally before bringing her knee into Kioku's stomach.

The Saiyajin armour cracked, pieces of the material crumbling away and falling to the ground.  Kioku found himself unable to breathe, pain slamming into him as #18 slowly removed her knee from his abdomen.  "There," #18 smiled.  "You want to try again?"

Kioku hissed in pain as #18 dropped him again, and he rose staggeringly to his feet.  This wasn't going to be much of a battle if he didn't think up something quickly . . . 

  


Any thoughts were erased as #18 came at him again, and Kioku was pushed to the limit of his abilities as he attempted to block the blows.  He could tell #18 wasn't fighting at her full capacity, but he wasn't going to complain; it would be hard enough blocking her lightning-fast punches and kicks even with both his arms, so if #18 chose to toy with him, then fine.  At least he would stay alive a while longer.

_I'm not a warrior_, the small part of Kioku's mind that was able to ponder things like that thought grimly, _If I was, I'd find a way to win this battle, even if I'm way weaker!_  He kept moving his hand so that #18's fists came in contact with his palm, and his legs parried #18's kicks, but he wondered how long #18 would keep playing this game of hit-and-block.  It couldn't be very entertaining for her!

_Think of something, Kiku!_ he thought desperately.

_Stupid Kiku, always being so heroic_, Trunks thought to himself, though he knew it wasn't Kioku's fault.  He had been just as involved with the rescue scheme as his friend had been.  _How are we gonna' get back home now?_

It infuriated Trunks that #17 was playing with him in such an obvious manner, tossing sarcastic encouragement Trunks' way any time he "almost got him this time" or "could've hurt if it had actually hit him."  Trunks didn't like being made fun of; not in the least.  

"C'mon, kid, you're slowing down!" #17 taunted, eyes sparkling, and Trunks spat a mouthful of blood at him.  He was surprised he'd even lasted this long, really . . . he'd been crazy to think he even stood a chance against the mechanized demons.

Shaking with rage, Trunks cupped his hands to one side of his body and channelled his energy.  "Ka ..."

"Oh no!" #17 clapped his hand to his forehead, rolling his eyes.  "Not _this_ one again!  Do you know how many weakling humans have used that attack?  Eesh!"

Paying him no heed, Trunks continued to chant.  "...me...ha...me...haaaa!" 

He knew the blast would have no effect on his adversary, but that wasn't Trunks' intention.  In the few seconds that it took the dust to clear, the demi-Saiyajin darted into the remains of a building, where he hid beneath a piece of broken concrete.  Trunks figured the _jinzouningen_ wouldn't be able to sense ki, and until #17 began blasting apart buildings looking for him, he would have a few minutes to rest and think of a plan.

Brute force was definitely not going to work.  If Trunks were a hundred times stronger, maybe, but not at his current power level . . . He needed to think of some way to fight without direct attacks.  Despite the gravity of the situation, Trunks found himself smirking; this was almost like any other of his schemes!  It shouldn't be too difficult to think something up.

He didn't know how long he had, but Trunks was aware it would be a few minutes, at most — #17 seemed to enjoy toying with his victims, but he wasn't sure how long the _jinzouningen_ would put up with not being able to find him.  Quickly but without panic Trunks pulled his capsules from their spot in his armour and checked through him, making mental notes.

Blanket and pillow: no; he didn't think #17 was sleepy.  Comic books: definitely not . . . he doubted #17 would be interested in reading his dog-eared copy of "Galaxy Warriors."  Underwear: probably not, unless the sight would scare #17 away.  An unmarked capsule . . . what was in that?  Trunks was about to toss it away when he decided that there _might _be something there that could help him.

Shrugging, Trunks depressed the top of the capsule, wincing as the "boom!" noise resounded through the city, but luckily the sounds of energy blasts covered it.  Trunks soon found himself staring at the long coil of lavender hair lying on the cement, and he rolled his eyes up to the sky in a momentary prayer for patience.  He made a mental note to hit Kioku if they got out of this battle.  Silly little Namekusejin, he never knew when to quit joking ar......

  


Trunks blinked, looking at the braid, and a slow grin invaded his expression.  Maybe Kioku wasn't such an idiot after all!

The boy stared at the braid for a few more seconds, crystal-blue eyes squinting in thought, then he stuck the lavender tassel beneath two rocks that had fallen against each other and created a kind of tent.  He prided himself on his ridiculous setups, often bragging that "normal people" didn't have the brains to think up ideas like he did: "stupid stuff" was often the kind of thing that worked.

That done, Trunks scooted over to the far side of the street, completely under cover of the wreckage.  He thanked his lucky stars (figuratively, of course, since the demi-Saiyajin didn't believe in luck) that the _jinzouningen_ could not sense energy levels, for he was able to hide safely.  He could see #17 through a crack in the cement, methodically searching the buildings, and Trunks grinned; #17 would come across the tassel of hair very soon.

Sure enough, Trunks heard #17 chuckle as the _jinzouningen _paused in front of Trunks' old hiding place.  "Come out, come out, wherever you are," #17 called playfully, parodying a child's game.  "I can see you!"

When "Trunks" did not reply, #17 swooped down and latched onto the end of the braid, only to stop short as he brandished a loose hank of hair.  "What the —" Trunks watched #17's face spasm with anger, and the _jinzouningen_ spun around, looking for his opponent.  "You little brat!  I'll get you for that!"

When #17 was looking the other way, Trunks shot from his hidden spot, powering up the attack he had made up himself; the _Sugoi Suupaa Kaze Bakuhatsu_.  Kioku had laughed at the ridiculousness of the name at first, but Trunks shrugged it off.  He thought it was a very descriptive name. 

Holding his hands at arm's length away from his sides, Trunks shouted the attack name at the top of his lungs and clapped his palms together in front of himself.  The delivery was a little less impressive than it should have been since Trunks choked on dust, causing the "_Bakuhatsu_" to sound like "_Bakuha-ha-ha-ha-hatsu_," but it didn't affect the power of the attack.  

A wall of energy shot out from in front of Trunks like a tidal wave, hitting #17 head on and knocking the _jinzouningen_, spinning and reeling, into a building. #17 lay in the rubble for a few seconds, dazed and surprised, and Trunks used his advantage, flying to a position above the fallen _jinzouningen_ and firing rapidly.

"_Renzoku . . . Enerugii Boru Ha_!"

A succession of small but powerful energy blasts shot from Trunks' palms, striking #17 so quickly that it raised a thick cloud of dust, ash, and disintegrated concrete.  Trunks continued to fire until he was completely devoid of any energy, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping as oxygen slid unwillingly into his lungs.  

"I hope ..." he wheezed, "I got him ... 'cause I can't ... do that ... again . . ."

"Well, too bad for you," the sarcastic voice, coming from the haze of debris, stabbed through Trunks' heart like a knife.  "Because that pathetic little technique barely managed to scuff up my sneakers," the smoke cleared, and Trunks saw #17 standing in a large crater.  One end of his shoelace was burning merrily, but #17 quickly stepped on it, extinguishing the small flame.  "Stupid little kid — I was having fun playing with you, but I guess you actually want to fight now, not toy around."

_I did what I could,_ Trunks thought despairingly, _Now what?  I guess I just gotta' stay alive!_

Kioku coughed wretchedly, violet blood spewing from his mouth as he pressed his hands over his lungs, trying to stop the spasms in his chest.  "Stop acting like a baby!" #18 shouted, kicking Kioku sharply in the ribs, and the child struggled to his feet.  "You got yourself into this battle; now you're going to have to follow it through!"

"Don't ... worry," Kioku ground out, wiping his mouth with his hand.  "I'm not ... giving ... up."

  


"_Very_ inspiring," #18 said dryly, phasing out and reappearing behind Kioku, where she clasped her hands together and brought them down heavily on his head.  Kioku managed to dodge the blow, but barely, and he knew he couldn't last much longer.  "But it won't generate any sympathy from me."

He could see in her eyes that she was quickly growing bored with this game, and Kioku realized he had to do something quickly.  There was no way he was going to make it through this battle if #18 decided to start fighting seriously!

Suddenly, the roof of a demolished building collapsed, and both Kioku and #18 glanced briefly at it.  Kioku was reminded of the apartment where he and Trunks rescued the crowd of civilians . . . and it was then that inspiration (salvation?) struck.  Frowning with concentration, Kioku focussed his consciousness on #18, and in the two seconds that it took her to fly at him again, the Namekusejin picked her up with his mind and tossed her across the street.

He heard her yell in surprise, and Kioku squeezed out a tight smile, though he didn't allow himself to dwell on the triumphant emotion for long.  Cockiness like that would get him killed in less than a second.  Kioku kept his mental hold on #18, using it to fling her around like a rag doll caught in heavy wind, and the Namekusejin rejoiced at #18's resulting inability to fire energy blasts at him with any accuracy.

As long as he could hold out and not break his concentration — and assuming that #17 didn't notice what he was doing and decide to join the fight — Kioku just might survive this battle.

Punch after punch slammed into Trunks' broken body as the boy was pummelled mercilessly by his angry opponent.  #17 was still playing with him — if he wasn't, Trunks knew he wouldn't be alive — but it was the way a cat toyed with a mouse right before the final blow.  Trunks was barely hanging on to his consciousness, his vision fading into black and back again.

He could hear #17 laughing at him, but he couldn't even muster enough energy to flip the _jinzouningen_ the one-finger salute.  "Poor little human — or whatever you are," #17 scoffed.  "Not only do you _look_ like your father, you _fight_ like him, too; like a little old lady."

Trunks forced his eyes open in shock, peering through eyelids gummed with drying blood.  "What ... did you ... s-say ...?" he gasped, coughing.

"I said, your father fought like an old lady," #17 grinned, pausing with his fist a few inches from Trunks' face.  "And when we killed him, he screamed like a little girl."

_No_, Trunks thought, mind racing with desperation.  _He couldn't have!  I - I was there!  If he had screamed, I would've - would've remembered . . ._

"What's the matter, kid?  Can't accept the facts?" #17 was sneering now, and he resumed Trunks' beating.  Trunks didn't even feel the blows this time; his mind was too numbed by the information the cyborg was now giving him.  "And you know what's even _more_ embarrassing?  He cried like a baby!  He got down on his hands and knees in front of us and begged for his life like some weak child."

"No," Trunks rasped, blood gurgling in his throat.  "He didn't!"

"How do _you_ know?" #17 pointed out cruelly.  "You were what, a year old?  Nice try, kid.  And do you know what he did next?"

Trunks was having a hard time focussing on the words, since his brain was rebelling against the news and was slowly losing control of his body.  He could feel himself slipping, but somehow forced himself to remain in the physical plane.  "...Liar..."

  


"Anyway," #17 continued as though Trunks had never interrupted.  Trunks noted the sadistic glee glittering in #17's cold, blue eyes, and more than anything he wished for the power to destroy him.  "Before we killed him, Vegeta pleaded with us to let him go.  He said that we could kill his son and his wife, as long as he was allowed to live."

Trunks' eyes widened as much as they could, and tears brimmed in them.  "He didn't . . ." he whispered, all the fight gone out of him.  He stopped blocking, not caring now if he was killed; in fact, he wanted to die.  Nine years old and wishing for death . . . it was an odd thought, but no less terrible than his father begging the _jinzouningen_ to kill Trunks and Bulma instead of him.

Something niggled the back of Trunks' memory; he knew he had seen his father's death, and he didn't remember any crying . . . and Kioku hadn't said anything about it . . . of course, Kioku was his best friend and wouldn't want to tell him anything that would hurt him.

_He said that we could kill his son and his wife, as long as he was allowed to live_ . . .

The boy's eyes snapped open: "wife?"  #17 had called his mother Vegeta's wife?  Trunks knew for a fact that his parents had never married; he didn't remember much about his life before the past five years, but he had a perfectly clear memory of a conversation with his mother.  He had asked her if she and his father had married, and his mother had denied it.  She said they had been thinking about it, but that Vegeta had been killed before the idea really stuck.

Through the blood, sweat, and grime, Trunks smiled.  #17 noticed this, and his eyes widened, but Trunks didn't care.  He knew the _jinzouningen_ was lying.  Even if his parents _had_ been married, Trunks knew from conversations with his mother that Vegeta would never call Bulma "his wife."  "His woman," maybe, but never wife — and maybe not even that, not if he was speaking to an enemy.

The amusement and satisfaction slowly died, replaced by a sudden, unexplainable rage.  Trunks felt it start in his heart, like ice and fire together; he didn't understand the feeling, but it was there nonetheless.  He felt ashamed for ever doubting his father's integrity, then once again, the anger returned.  Fury at #17 for telling him such a horrible lie . . . outrage toward him for killing his father in the first place . . .

Trunks narrowed his eyes, regarding #17 calmly.  Though he knew he couldn't expect to win, he had to fight.  It was his duty, as the offspring of a Saiyajin warrior, to defend his father's honour.  He didn't know what kind of power he could tap into, and he realized even the legendary level of the Super Saiyajin  hadn't helped his father or Goku-san, but Trunks didn't care.  He was going to fight, and if it was his destiny, he would die . . . but he would go the way of a fighter.

It didn't disturb him that he was only nine years old, and that his whole life was, by all rights, ahead of him.  It didn't matter if he died; a life lived in fear, always running and hiding from his enemies, was not one worth living.  Maybe it was for some, maybe it was the human half of him that had kept him alive for so long . . . but Trunks' Saiyajin heritage was in control now.  He didn't _want_ to die, but he wanted everything to be over.  If he couldn't defeat #17, then so be it;  but he wanted it to end now.  Not ten years from now, still hopelessly outclassed, gunned down like a frightened child.

Something happened, Trunks' energy level flaring dramatically.  The power that raced through him seemed familiar, like it had happened before . . . but long ago, when he could barely remember.  Trunks didn't care; all he knew was that he wanted to make the _jinzouningen_ pay!

There was no way to explain the power that slammed into Trunks as soon as he decided he wanted it.  It felt like . . . like . . . like when a sudden thunderstorm had come up in the desert one night, and Trunks had almost been struck by lightning.  The boulder next to him had been blown to pieces, and Trunks was flung to the ground with jarring force.  Winded and frightened, it had taken Trunks a few scary moments before he could regain his breath, but afterwards, he'd found himself grinning at the experience.

That was the only comparable thing Trunks could think of.  Power raced through him until it felt like his very hair was standing on end, and he didn't even notice when #17 dropped him in surprise.  Without even standing, hunched on his hands and knees, Trunks began to yell, that being the only way he could release the energy inside him.  It was as though, if he didn't scream, he would explode.

  


His eyes burned.  His skin felt stretched, like his muscles had grown too large, too quickly.  He didn't understand, but he wanted more!  It was a drug he couldn't get enough of . . . stronger than his love of eating, more intense than his desire to see his mother again . . . it even dwarfed the hatred he felt for the _jinzouningen_.

He opened his eyes, which still felt like they were on fire, and met #17's gaze square on.  Though the _jinzouningen_ was taller than he and thought himself more powerful, Trunks saw something that made him smile; fear.  It was only there for a second, flickering in #17's eyes so quickly that it could have been imagined, but Trunks knew it was real.  

"I don't . . . it's Vegeta!" #17 gaped, taking an involuntary step backwards.  "But . . . that's impossible!  We killed you!"

"I'm not Vegeta.  I'm his son," Trunks smiled, though it was more of a smirk.  He could hear #18 screaming obscenities in the background, and he knew from this that Kioku was still alive.  _Good job, Kiku! _ he sent the reassurance toward his friend, and whether he received it or not, Trunks didn't know.

"You've caused enough pain to this planet," Trunks continued, his lip curling in an angered sneer.  He wanted #17 to die — even though the power of the Super Saiyajin had failed his two predecessors, maybe it would bring him to victory.  The world seemed to disappear; the city, the deaths, his family, Kioku . . . Nothing mattered; just him, #17 . . . and his power.

He drew his hands together, not sure what he was doing, but allowing his instincts to take over.  Unthinking, Trunks moved his hands and arms in intricate patterns, like he was practicing his katas at a rapid pace.  Hands flying, Trunks flung his arms, palms forward, thumb and index fingers together, and looked at #17 through the diamond-shaped gap between his fingers.

Trunks narrowed his eyes again, this time in concentration, seeing that #17 had regained his composure and was once again looking at the boy with disdain, not to mention self-directed annoyance at allowing himself to be afraid.  Without waiting for the _jinzouningen_ to make a move, Trunks fired.

Blue light poured from Trunks' hands, engulfing the startled #17.  Obviously, he hadn't expected an attack anywhere near as massive as this one that struck him full on, sending him pinwheeling backwards.  Trunks followed, making sure he didn't expend all his strength like the last time, but was shocked to discover that he didn't run out.  The state of Super Saiyajin seemed to _donate_ energy instead of draining it!

_Maybe I can actually do this! _ The idea struck him like a _kamehameha_ to the face, and Trunks smiled tightly.

#17 picked himself up from the rubble, glaring fiercely, but when he flew over to Trunks again, the _jinzouningen_'s eyes were lit with something that Trunks could only describe as anticipation.  "So you can fight after all," #17 inclined his head in a short bow.  "Well, then.  Perhaps this will be more interesting than I thought.  Let's continue!"

The battle began anew, but this time the footing was not as unequal as before . . . for a few minutes, at least . . .

******

The Son and Briefs families were in the middle of lunch when Son Gohan suddenly began choking on his rice.  ChiChi leaned over and slapped him on the back, but Gohan waved her away.  "Mom, how long have Kioku and Trunks been gone?" he demanded.

ChiChi blinked, wondering at the outburst.  She knew how long her son had been missing; right down to the day, and even the hour, when despair struck her particularly hard.  Lately, however, she had begun to come to terms with the fact that her baby boy was not going to return to her; five years was far too long for a three-year-old to survive on his own.  

"Why, Gohan-chan?  You know how long he's been gone."

Gohan's eyes were wide, and he had paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth, food dropping to his plate unnoticed.  "I – I just felt his energy, Mom.  His and Trunks'.  They – they . . ." the teenager stood up from the table abruptly, knocking his chair over with a loud clatter.  "They're fighting the _jinzouningen_, Mom!  I can sense their energies.  They made it!  They're actually doing it!"

Any elation ChiChi might have felt at the news quickly evaporated at the look on Gohan's face.  "Gohan-chan, you aren't going to find them, are you?  How – how can you tell it's really them?  What if you risk your life to find them, and it turns out that it's someone else, and then you get killed by the _jinzouningen_ and I've lost _both_ my children?  I'm not letting you go, Gohan-chan!"

But just like every other time ChiChi tried to reason with him, Gohan spun on his heel and stalked out of the kitchen.  ChiChi buried her face in her hands as she heard his energy flare as her only remaining son flew off . . . again . . .

******

"Brat!" #18 yelled furiously, firing energy blasts from her palms.  The deadly attacks, fended off by Kioku's telekinetic shield, resulted in nothing but a colourful light show — and this enraged #18 into a berserker frenzy. 

Kioku had given up trying to control #18's movements; she was too strong, and once the element of surprise had worn off, #18 had escaped.  The Namekusejin was now huddled in the street, arm flung defensively in front of his face, projecting an energy shield powerful enough to deflect anything #18 shot at him.

He could see Trunks, across the street, fighting with #17.  The demi-Saiyajin had changed dramatically — his hair, his eyes, his power . . . even his energy aura was yellow instead of white.  It frightened Kioku, to feel the deadly rage that resided within his friend, to see the anger contorting the child's round face.  Trunks seemed so much older than he really was . . . it was scary!  Yet, Kioku was proud, too.  He knew, without any doubts, that his best friend had reached the coveted plateau of the Super Saiyajin.  He had ascended without Kioku's help, without training or guidance . . . he had done it himself.

Kioku didn't know how long Trunks would be able to stand up against #17, but it was more than Kioku was doing.  At least Trunks could fight, when Kioku could only throw up a shield and hope the _jinzouningen_ would grow bored and leave.  Kioku was useless.

Frustration boiled up inside Kioku like acid over a Bunsen burner, but it wasn't merely his own emotions.  Somehow, he knew that part of his anger belonged to Father; bitterness due to the Saiyajin ability to leave all other fighters behind.  Kioku had memories of dozens of battles where Dad had surpassed Father, leaving Father to be rescued by Dad.  The cycle was continuing once again.

Or was it?  A pain-filled scream caught Kioku's attention, and he whipped his head around, still careful to leave his shield at full power.  The sight caused the child to stagger and cry out in fear.  His ki shield flickered, but held.

Trunks had lost his advantage.  He had surprised #17, but that was over; the _jinzouningen_ was angry now, and was not about to let a mere boy get away with making a fool out of him.  The game had gone on long enough.

The golden-haired fighter was down, face-first in the concrete, #17's sneakered foot firmly planted on the back of Trunks' head.  Trunks was yelling in agony and fear as his face was crushed into the broken cement, and his cries tore through Kioku's ears like a firebrand.  #18 stopped firing at him and turned to watch, grinning as #17 continued grinding Trunks' head into the ground.  Kioku covered his ear, but it didn't help.

The air seemed to get heavy all of the sudden, like the oxygen had turned into lead and was intent on squishing Kioku into a little green Namekusejin pancake.  His thoughts grew muddled as he watched Trunks being pressed deeper and deeper into the street, and no matter what he tried to do, he couldn't move.

He could hear a wet cracking and popping noise, and for the life of him, Kioku couldn't figure out what it was.  It conjured up a memory of Trunks eating some animal he had killed; when he pulled the meat off the bones and it made a nasty crunching, crackling sound.  It had turned Kioku's stomach even then, but now it was a hundred times worse.  He didn't know if it was his bones that were cracking from the strain, or what it —

Trunks had stopped screaming.

#17 carefully pulled his foot out from Trunks' head — was that his head?  It didn't look like it . . . It looked like a watermelon that had been dropped and split open.  Trunks' face was hidden, thankfully, by a loose chunk of asphalt, so Kioku didn't have to see that.  He could see his hair, though, matted with crimson blood, stuck together in wet clumps.  He could see bones sticking out from Trunks' head, and pieces on the sidewalk, and blood.  Lots of blood.  It was everywhere, pooling out from cracks in Trunks' skull and slowly staining the road a dark red.

Kioku managed to pull himself together, tearing his gaze away from the grisly scene,  but as rage flooded him, his mind snapped.  He didn't know how to explain it, but all of the sudden every single memory of Father, Kami-sama, Neru, and Daimaou Piccolo slammed into his head.  He couldn't figure out why that happened, but along with the memories – and the accompanying confusion – came incredible power.  He wondered if it was comparable to what Trunks had been feeling.

With a roar of anguish, tears streaming from his eyes, Kioku launched himself at the _jinzouningen._

He didn't know how long the battle lasted.  He didn't even _remember the battle, much less details.  However long a time period it was, it was just a blur . . . an inseparable mix of pain, angst, energy, and rage.  He didn't remember what happened, who was winning, or how badly injured he was.  All he knew was that all of a sudden, something slammed into him, knocking him to the ground near Trunks' body._

He couldn't open his eyes.  He was too tired.  Pain stabbed at every inch of his body, and he felt like all his skin had been burned off.  Maybe it had — he didn't know.  All he knew was that he had never hurt so much in his entire life.  It didn't make it any better that he didn't know who he was; so many memories, so many lifetimes, were crammed into his head that he was confused beyond measure.  He was a little child.  He was that child's father, a powerful warrior.  He was the last fighter on a dying planet.  He was the Guardian of Earth.  He was a demon.  He was _all _of them.

_Who am I?_  the agonized thought crept into his brain, the very neurons burning from the impulses needed to create the thought.  _Who is the real me?_

  


"Kioku!  Trunks!" the voice tore through his mind, making him wince inwardly.  Even that noise, far away, hurt just as much as someone shoving a molten-hot iron rod in his ear.  "Oh no!  Please, tell me you guys are okay!"

He wanted to answer, but the chemical impulses from his brain to his mouth weren't moving.  Nothing was moving, nothing was working.  _Of course I'm okay,_ he yelled the thought, no matter how much it hurt.  _I just feel broken.  I'm not dead, though._

". . . No . . . Kioku . . ." he felt hands slide under what was left of his body, whatever hadn't been blown away, and their touch was like fire.  "Kioku, you can't be dead.  That'll kill Mom, if you don't come back to her!"

_Kioku . . . is that me?  No, it can't be me.  Kioku's dead.  I'm not dead._

". . . no . . ." the voice  —  Gohan! He realized suddenly.  The voice belonged to Gohan!  Two of the people inside him felt insanely happy at the knowledge.  Gohan sounded like he was overcome with grief, his voice shaking uncontrollably, breaking occasionally.  "I'm so sorry . . . you never should've fought them alone.  Never!  How could you possibly think you could beat them?  You - you never stood a chance . . ."

_I'm not dead_, he insisted vehemently, though his protests went unheard.  _I'm just tired!  I'm okay — I'm alive.  Why do you think I'm dead?_

Something wet splashed onto his face from above, feeling like liquid flames were trailing down his face.  Gohan was crying?  "I'll never forgive myself," Gohan's voice was husky now.  "Never!  It's my fault you two were killed . . . it's all my fault!"

Gohan began screaming, and power surged around him like lightning.  _He's a Super Saiyajin_, he thought, though he didn't know where the knowledge came from.

_I'm not dead . . ._

Something was wrong.  His brain was shutting down.  He couldn't hear anything anymore.  _I'm not dead!_ He shouted, but no one answered.  __

_Don't leave me here.  Don't bury me, don't give me a funeral.  I'm still alive!_

The pain was fading, being replaced by a coldness that seemed to come from nowhere.  A minute later, all feeling in his body was gone.  It was almost like he was floating.

_I'm not dead.  Please . . . don't leave me . . ._

But even his thoughts were slipping now.  Try as he might, he couldn't form anything coherent in his mind anymore.  A darkness even blacker than the voice already surrounding him engulfed him.  It was as though everything about him — his body, his soul — was slowly vanishing.  He didn't know where he was going.  All he knew was that he didn't want to go there.  Not without Gohan.  Not without Mom.

_N-not . . . d . . d . . . e . . ._

Too late.  What was left of his consciousness disappeared, like water down a drain.  Whatever it was that made him _who_ he was . . . it was gone.

And then, there was nothing to greet him but a cold, endless darkness.

******

A/N: Yes.  I killed them.  Even I can't believe I did that!  Keep in touch, though – it's not quite over.  And don't kill me!  


	6. Death of Dreams, Birth of Despair

Disclaimer: I don't own DB/Z/GT.  I'm finally getting DBGT in Japanese raw, so that's good!  No waiting for the English dubs two years from now!!!

A/N: Wow … I wasn't expecting so many explosive responses for that last chapter, but I'm glad I got them.  It's nice to know that I've written a character well enough that everyone was able to relate to him.  It makes me very proud!  (Of course, I can't take all the credit.  Kioku's natural endearing qualities make it quite easy.)

Anyway.  I'm sorry they died, but I'm not sorry I killed them.  It had to happen, people!  Otherwise it wouldn't realistic.  However.  This chapter is from the POV's of Gohan, ChiChi, and Bulma.  It's a tearjerker, so watch it.

Deeper Than Colour — The Kioku Story

**Chapter Six: Death of Dreams, Birth of Despair**

"It's my fault . . . this is . . . all . . . my fault . . ."

Son Gohan struggled to keep the tattered shreds of his composure together as he raced through the sky, not wanting to drop the two precious bundles he carried, wrapped in his shirt.  He gave silent thanks that his t-shirt was black; that way, the violet and crimson blood stains didn't show through.  If it weren't for the wetness seeping through the fabric, warm and sticky, soaking Gohan's arms and chest, he could almost imagine he was carrying home groceries for his mother.

Almost . . . but not quite.

Gohan's throat hitched, and his eyes burned as though someone had stuck a lit match in them.  Thick, choking sobs rose up from inside him, and he gagged on his own saliva as he cried.  He could barely see or think, using instead his mother's ki sense to guide him home.

Home.  He was taking Trunks and Kioku home, after five, nearly six, years . . . how he, his mother, and Bulma had dreamed of this day . . . his grandfather, Gyuu-mao, had died of a heart attack the previous year.  Thousands of innocent people were slaughtered thoughtlessly each day by the _jinzouningen_ . . . the only thing that had given Gohan hope was the thought that maybe his little brother and his best friend were still alive.

Through his misery, Gohan snorted, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut.  Hope . . . what a funny thought — in an ironic, morbid sort of humour, of course.  Hope was something invented by the gods merely to torture those living on Earth.  Gohan knew that now.  Life had toyed with him, letting him think that _maybe_, things would turn out all right.  The fights with the Saiyajin, with Furiza . . . those had fooled Gohan into thinking that there was nothing he and his friends could not overcome.

Then had come the sickness that infected him, ravaging his heart.  Gohan had thought he was going to die — was _supposed_ to have died, but Piccolo-san gave his life for him.  A year later, the _jinzouningen_ arrived and murdered Gohan's father and his friends.  Two years after that, Kioku and Trunks had run away and were never seen again.  Life seemed to delight in dealing Gohan bad hands, right after the other . . .

He had done the best he could.  He had supported his mother and Bulma, had fought the _jinzouningen_ whenever he could and managed to stay alive each time, rescued victims when possible . . . and all the time, kept searching for the two errant children.

And now, he had found them . . .

Gohan's nostrils flared and he fought the fresh onslaught of tears, but it was about as effective as attempting to fight the _jinzouningen_ blindfolded, and the scalding liquid poured down his cheeks.  The two boys, looking so much older compared to what they had been the last time he'd seen them, had been lying on the broken street.  Trunks' head had been crushed to pieces, and it had taken some time before Gohan had been able to wrap what was left in the top of his gi.  He didn't want Bulma to see what remained of her son's handsome face.

Kioku, on the other hand, though battered and bruised with one arm missing, looked as though he had died of exhaustion, probably having gone into a berserker rage after Trunks' death.  Gohan swallowed hard, and he forced himself not to remember the grief that had slammed into him when he held his adoptive brother's broken body in his arms.  They were so small . . . so helpless . . . yet not, if they had managed to last long enough in a fight with the _jinzouningen_ to get so injured.

"It's my fault," he gasped, shuddering.  "If I'd just trained them . . . if I hadn't been such a coward . . . they wouldn't've run away.  What'm . . . What am I gonna' tell Mom and Bulma?"

  


Gohan didn't want to have to think of that.  Both his mother and her best friend were strong women, having dealt with the loss of loved ones several times in their lives, but neither of them had lost a child . . . it had been hard enough for them when the boys had run away, and even then they could imagine that they were alive somewhere.

Well.  At least they'd been right.

"I didn't get there fast enough," Gohan's voice caught in his throat.  "If I had just gotten there a little sooner, I would've . . . I could've . . ."

But he didn't know what he could have done.  If he'd attempted to save the children, the _jinzouningen_ would have killed them immediately, just to anger him.  Even _if_ Gohan had rescued them first, they would have gotten in the way and slowed him down . . . in reality, he knew there was nothing he could have done.

That didn't help, of course — all it did was make Gohan feel a hundred times worse than he did before, taunting him with his own ineffectiveness.  He called himself a warrior, the son of the great Son Goku . . . and he couldn't even save two young boys.

His mouth set in a grim line, Gohan squared his shoulders, clutched the boys' bodies to his chest, and doubled his speed.  No use delaying what had to be done — and _definitely_ no point to encouraging his mother any more than he had already.

******

"No . . . gods, _no_!  Kioku-chan!"

Son ChiChi stared at the torn, disheveled body of her youngest son, who was lying on the couch in Capsule Corp.'s reception room.  "Kioku-chan . . . you can't be . . . you can't be d- . . . it can't be you . . ."

But there was no mistaking him — not just because of the distinctive Namekusejin features such as the skin, ears, and fangs, but also little things that only she noticed.  The tiny nose, turned upward like that of his birth father.  The frown lines between his eyes, inherited from watching Goku concentrate . . . characteristics that ChiChi had memorized when Kioku lived at home, and had used to comfort herself during his absence.

Gone, however, was the brilliant smile that would brighten his entire face like he had been lit from within by a gigantic candle; the smile that had been uncharacteristic of Piccolo, but so totally Kioku.  Gone also was the mischievous glitter in his black eyes, the challenging lift of one brow ridge.  Instead of these, Kioku's broken face was disfigured and mangled, bones smashed, violet blood leaking from the orifices, and a look of terror warped his childish, yet beautiful, features.  One arm was missing, his back was broken . . . ChiChi restrained a sob that she felt would have torn her in two.

"My baby . . . my little baby . . ." her voice, once loud and strident, capable of stopping any misbehaver in his tracks, was whisper-soft, cracked and low.  ChiChi reached out and touched Kioku's face, feeling the cold skin, clammy and unpleasant under her fingers.  She drew back quickly before summoning the courage to close the eyelids over the frightened eyes.

Slowly, ChiChi unbuckled the shoulder straps on the breastplate Kioku wore — she didn't want to bury him in cracked body armour.  It seemed dishonourable somehow, and she swallowed more tears, gently removing the armour from Kioku's body.  It made no sense to be gentle with him, now that he couldn't feel a thing, but ChiChi didn't care.

_Kioku-chan always was a sensitive boy,_ she thought, grief-stricken, _I'd never want to hurt him . . ._

As she put the pieces of the breastplate on the sofa beside Kioku's body, a few items fell out of an inner pocket; some capsules, plus four ragged pieces of paper.  Curious as to what her little boy had brought with him, ChiChi held up the papers . . . and gasped in shock at the photographs of her family.

  


Kioku-chan, Gohan-chan, Goku, Piccolo . . . three of them dead, and one ravaged so by grief that he wasn't even recognizable as the cheery boy who had used to be her son.  ChiChi's hand trembled so much that she dropped the pictures to the floor, and she buried her face in her arms and burst into tears anew.  

Beside her, Briefs Bulma was in no better condition.  The turquoise-haired woman was staring at her son's body with vacant eyes, believing what she was seeing but desperately wishing she didn't have to.  Gohan had wrapped Trunks' head in the top of his training gi, and through the white background of the _Han_ symbol, dark red blood oozed through.  Whatever had happened to him, Gohan had obviously not wanted her to see.  Normally, Bulma would have scoffed at such an attempt to protect her, but this time . . . this time she trusted his judgement.

Not that she didn't have a pretty good guess anyway.

As she stared at what was visible of Trunks' body, Bulma's mind suddenly ran back to the night after his birth, when Vegeta was showering and she was feeding the infant.  She had been sitting in a rocking chair, cradling Trunks' tiny, frail form in her arms, marvelling at his enormous appetite even at that tender age.  He hadn't much hair then, only a few lavender tufts above his forehead, but his eyes were already the bright crystal blue that he would never grow out of.  She had stroked his soft cheek with her finger, and the infant's tail had coiled around her wrist in response.  He had been a beautiful baby.

Bulma had started singing to him quietly, and though her voice was not particularly musical, the child opened his wide eyes and stared at her, and Bulma could have sworn he'd smiled . . . a few minutes later, Trunks had closed his eyes and fallen asleep, sucking on one fist.

Vegeta had come out of the shower and stood behind the chair, watching her.  Bulma was aware of his presence but didn't acknowledge him, when suddenly Vegeta reached down and poked his son's fist with one finger.  Trunks' chubby fingers curled around Vegeta's thumb, and Bulma had looked up to see him smiling . . . her Vegeta, _smiling_!

"He will be strong," Vegeta had professed, carefully extricating his finger, and he kissed Bulma before climbing into the bed across the room.  Bulma, after staring at Vegeta for a few moments, had kissed Trunks' smooth forehead and gently carried him to the bed, laying him down between her and Vegeta.  It was one of the first true, quiet moments the family had ever shared, when neither Bulma nor Vegeta had kept their guards up.  And it was all because of Trunks.

Bulma's throat hitched, as she remembered how it felt to hold her son in her arms, and the peace that enveloped her when she did so . . . in the five years since his disappearance, she had felt empty, incomplete . . .  Bulma had never been able to explain the feeling, but she knew what it was.

Now, she could feel the tears backing up like a logjam in her throat, and a small, choking noise escaped her.  Cautiously, she sat on the edge of the couch, next to the lifeless shell that used to be her son, and with tears streaming from her eyes, Bulma picked him up.  He didn't feel any heavier than he had when he was three years old, though he was limp and unresponsive, and Bulma gently lifted him into her lap.  Cradling his battered form in her arms, Bulma rested Trunks' bandaged head on her chest and softly crooned the lullaby she had sung nine years ago.

Across the room, Gohan listened to Bulma's song, and he pressed his hands over his face.  He wouldn't cry . . . he _couldn't_!  He was the man of the house now, without Grandpa or Dad . . . he had to be strong for his mother.  If she saw him crying, who knew what it would do to her . . .

But as a few telltale tears slipped down Gohan's scarred cheeks, he knew it didn't matter whether he cried or not.  Both Bulma, slowly rocking her dead child in her arms, his blood gradually staining her dress, and his mother, stroking Kioku's face and planting light kisses on his forehead, wouldn't notice anything he did.

Feeling broken and alone, Gohan leaned against the wall and let his legs buckle, sliding slowly to the floor.  He rested his head on his knees, laced his fingers in his unruly hair, and wept.

******

  


It was Gohan who had the courage to speak first, breaking the silence that had held the room in its grip for three hours.  Well, not exactly silence — it was a silence merely of speech, filled with the sounds of sobbing and crying, but no one talking.  Gohan was the one who finally raised his head, noting that the sun had just set, and the sky was a horrific blood-red colour.

"What are we going to do with them?"

It seemed like a callous question on the surface, but it was actually quite a poignant one.  With the deaths of the Z-senshi seven years prior, not enough of their bodies had existed for a proper burial or anything of the sort, so Gohan, after returning home and reporting the news, had flown back to the city with ChiChi and Bulma.  Kioku and Trunks had stayed behind with Gyuu-mao and Bulma's parents.

Hovering above the street where the valiant warriors had met their end, Gohan, holding ChiChi by the waist, Bulma clinging to his back, had powered up an energy blast and shot it at the city, setting the streets and everything in them on fire.  There, with the two women weeping, Gohan watched as the remains of the fighters were devoured by flames, until the red tongues of fire erased all traces that they had been there.  It had been painful to watch, yes, but much less than it would have been to have to try to cart home the pieces of their bodies and bury them.  It seemed more respectful, somehow, to have their bodies consumed by fire.

It had been strange — again, almost morbidly amusing.  Gohan had cried for an hour straight, collapsed on the ground in the middle of all the bodies, but once he returned home and told his mother and Bulma, the tears had stopped.  It was as though when the women cried, Gohan couldn't.  He had to be strong for them.  Even when he took them all to the battle site and his mother and Bulma were in hysterics, Gohan only shed one tear the entire time.  He had watched the city burn; watched as the fire crept closer and closer to his father's body, finally catching up to it and igniting his clothing and hair . . . but though he saw his father, Kuririn-san, and all his friends reduced to ashes by the unrelenting flames, he didn't cry.  It was almost peaceful, to see the bodies removed.  It was . . . warrior-like.  Fighters shouldn't be left to rot in the streets, nor should they be buried to be eaten by maggots and who knew what else.

And it gave him a sense of closure right away — a feeling that, despite everything, they would not be back.  It hadn't eased the hurt, but at least Gohan _knew_ they were gone.  False hope was a killer. 

Piccolo-san had been cremated, as well, though in a different way . . . Gohan had built a funeral pyre, out by the waterfall Piccolo loved so much, and had carried the stiff body of his _sensei_ on his shoulders to the site.  He hadn't allowed anyone else to come to this funeral; not his father, not his mother, not Kuririn-san . . . no one.  No one else had known Piccolo-san as well as he had, and Gohan, still isolated in his grief, had not thought Piccolo-san would want anyone else present.

He had lit a short stick on fire and tossed it on the wooden pyre, then stood back and stared as the flames licked Piccolo's body.  It was twilight, Piccolo-san's favourite time of day, and the orange glow from the fire lit Piccolo-san in an eerie light.  Gohan had been thankful for that, since it masked the deathly colour of his best friend's skin.  He had already massaged the pain from Piccolo-san's face, closing his eyes and rearranging his facial muscles so he didn't look so hurting.  It didn't give him any comfort to do so, but it felt right.

Gohan had stood, tears pouring down his face, feeling like a baby, watching as his beloved Piccolo-san was surrounded by flames.  He hadn't wanted to stay, afraid of what he would see, not wanting to watch the flesh melt from Piccolo-san's skull, or the purple training gi meld to his skin and be burned away.  Fortunately, right when Gohan had thought he was going to be physically sick, an enormous wall of flame shot up, hiding Piccolo-san from view.  Thousands of sparks flew upward from the pyre, and Gohan had gotten the feeling that it was Piccolo-san's soul, escaping to heaven, winking goodbye at him.  When the flames died down, there was nothing left of Gohan's mentor and best friend in the universe. 

After that, the nine-year-old boy had fallen next to the remains of the pyre and cried until he felt there was nothing left inside him.

  


Now, feeling suddenly cold, Gohan shivered violently and glanced at the two women across the room.  They looked horrible, with their eyes red from weeping, faces streaked with tears, the skin around their eyes pink and puffy, but both were surprised at the question.

"Wh-what do you mean, Gohan-chan?"  ChiChi stared at him blankly, her eyes red-rimmed.  She looked like she didn't want to consider what to do with her son's body.

"Are we going to bury them, or cremate them, or what?" Gohan elaborated, his voice rasping painfully in his throat, and it felt like a large rock was firmly settled in the pit of his stomach.  A pounding ache began in his temples, and he closed his eyes.  He hadn't realized he had cried so hard.  "I know it sounds mean, but we have to figure it out soon."

ChiChi nodded in understanding, looking at Kioku, brushing a hand lightly over his forehead and pushing his antennae back.  One of them was broken, hanging crookedly over a green brow ridge, giving him an even more pitiable appearance.  "I . . . I see.  I don't know, Gohan-chan . . . I don't want to watch him burn, I know that, but . . . on the other hand . . . I don't want to put him in the ground and let him be eaten up by nasty worms . . . my poor little baby . . . he might get scared down there, all cold and dark . .."

"ChiChi!" Bulma said sharply, glancing at her, and Gohan was glad she had the strength to be harsh, because he certainly didn't.  "Snap out of it!  You're just going to make it worse for yourself."

"Sorry," ChiChi sniffled, tracing a finger now over the lines of Kioku's face — up his jawbone, over his cheek, across his forehead, and back again.  Feather-light touches, almost as though she was afraid to wake him.  "I'm not being very helpful, am I?  Well," she snorted, halfheartedly.  "At least I haven't fainted."

No one laughed.  Gohan got the feeling his mother didn't expect them to — it was a comment more out of habit than anything else.  He shook himself, running his fingers through his dark hair, which he had cut a few years back.  He hadn't wanted to grow up looking too much like his father, because it was hard enough on his mother as it was.  "I could do it, Mom — bury them, I mean.  You don't have to watch."

"I'm going to watch," Bulma cut in, her voice trembling but still with an edge of harshness to it.  She was building up that wall again, Gohan knew, and it pained him to see it.  Pained him because he had his own defenses built around himself, and he knew how much they hurt.  "If I don't, I'll never be able to truly believe that he's gone," a single tear broke loose from the corner of her eye, and she swiped it away angrily.

Gohan could tell, watching the two women as they struggled to piece themselves back together, that the period of public mourning was over for the time being.  Now came the time for everyone to pretend that they weren't affected, that they could each handle the situation, that the others could turn to them for comfort — and all the while, each would cry in the safe privacy of his or her own bedroom.  It was a pattern repeated over and over, each time a loss was suffered.

"I'll come, too," ChiChi spoke up softly, and she picked Kioku up, supporting his neck with one hand quickly, but not before his head lolled about like some kind of rag doll.  His one arm hung limp, and she pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his forehead.  "My baby," she whispered, waveringly, then her face, too, seemed to harden, and she straightened up.  Her arms around Kioku almost protectively, she stood on shaky legs. 

"Let's bury them first thing tomorrow morning," ChiChi declared, "As soon as the sun comes up.  It's too dark now, but I don't want to wait any longer than we have to.  It's not fair to them."

"I agree," Bulma nodded, then looked at the young man across the room.  "Gohan?"

Inwardly, Gohan would have wanted to do the deed now — he didn't like the idea of sleeping in the same house as two dead children, but there was nothing else he could do about it.  If the mothers wanted to wait, he wasn't going to overrule them.  It wasn't like the bodies were going to deteriorate in the hours until the burial, either . . . no harm existed in performing the service in the morning.

  


"All right," his voice, deep and strong now that he was nearly eighteen years old, was hoarse and ragged, barely recognizable as his own.  He sounded like a child.  "We'll wait.  I'll carry them up to their bed and they can stay there until we're ready to bury them . . . I wouldn't feel right leaving them anywhere else."

Both women agreed, and Gohan managed to climb to his feet, though he tottered for a few seconds and the blood rushed painfully back into his unused limbs.  "Here, give them to me," he commanded quietly, but the mothers hesitated.  Neither wanted to relinquish their sons; both ChiChi and Bulma held on to the bodies of their children protectively, pulling them close, like if they let go something awful would happen.  It nearly made Gohan start crying again, to see the defensiveness spring up into their eyes.

"I'm not going to hurt them," his voice was no more than a whisper now, but he didn't try to raise it.  He couldn't have, anyway.  "Let me put them to bed."

Slowly, ChiChi held out Kioku's body, and Gohan cradled it gently in his arms, supporting Kioku's head like he was a live infant.  Kioku had stopped bleeding hours ago, and now was covered in flaking, violet dust, though ChiChi had cleaned off his face, and Gohan swallowed with intense difficulty.  ChiChi stared at her blood-covered dress and arms, and her lower lip quivered, eyes shimmering all over again.

When Gohan held out his arms to Bulma, the blue-eyed woman shook her head violently.  "No," she argued, "I - I can't leave him overnight like this.  I . . . we need to clean them up.  It's the l-least we can do for them."

Silence hung heavy like a funeral shroud, and finally, Gohan nodded. "Okay.  You're right.  But Bulma-san, you aren't going to like what you see when I take the shirt off Trunks' head . . ."

A few seconds elapsed before Bulma spoke, as she stood with her head bowed, eyes closed, and when she did, her eyes glittered — both with unshed tears and with determination.  "I know . . ." her voice lowered, catching somewhere in the back of her throat.  "But I don't care."

Again, Gohan could only nod numbly.  He knew the bonds of motherhood were stronger than anything else he felt for these two boys, and he handed Kioku back to ChiChi carefully.  "You two do it.  It's not my place."

Neither answered him verbally, simply stepping past him without saying a word.  Gohan watched them go, disappearing down the dark hallway, and once they were gone, his legs collapsed from under him again.  He managed to stumble up the stairs to his room before falling to the bed and sobbing once more, clutching the blankets in his fists.

"Why . . ." came his agonized whisper, barely intelligible through the wails that tore loose from his shaking body.  "Why?  We were so close to finding them again, and . . . and now . . ."

But exhaustion and misery overtook him, and Son Gohan could speak no more.  Crawling slowly under the blankets, not bothering to change out of his bloodstained pants, or to shower, or even to remove his boots, Gohan buried his face in the pillow and attempted to will himself to sleep, where he could — at least for a few hours — escape the torment that raged around him.

******

It was strange, ChiChi thought absently, half amazed that she could even form coherent thoughts, how maternal instincts kicked in when grief paralyzed everything else.  She and Bulma were in one of the large bathrooms, neither one speaking to each other or even paying the other any heed.  It was a private task, the one they were about to embark upon, but one that neither wished to do alone, either.  

Slowly, carefully, ChiChi removed the spandex bodysuit Kioku wore; the task was not particularly difficult, since there was not much left of it, and she placed what remained in the garbage.  She ran her gaze over her son's battered form, noting how his body, once soft and slightly round like those of most three-year-olds, was now tight and firm, even at the tender age of eight.  Corded muscle had replaced fat in his arms and legs, and his chest and abdomen muscles were sharply defined.  That brought tears to ChiChi's eyes as well, for it didn't seem right for innocent little children to be so physically in shape.

  


Of course, Kioku wasn't an innocent little child.  He had pretended to be, after his adoptive father's death, but ChiChi had known what went on behind those soft, black eyes of his.  She had seen the thoughtful way he would look at her, sizing up the situation and exactly what she was feeling.  Even as an infant, Kioku had known when something bothered her, and it used to make him cry when he couldn't help.  His innocence had been burned away at a very early age, replaced by a responsibility to protect — one that seemed to fall on everyone who came in contact with Son Goku.  It was a role that Kioku, even at the age of three, had seemed eager to accept, though he knew the consequences all too well.

She shook her head slowly, soaking a washcloth in warm water and running it gently over Kioku's face, removing the crusted, purple blood from his emerald skin.  She could do nothing for the dark bruises or the gashes themselves, but it helped to clean off what blood she could.

ChiChi washed his arm next, and as she came to his hand, a sob rose up in ChiChi's throat that she quickly swallowed.  At age eight, Kioku's hands were still incredibly small — not even as long as ChiChi's palm, and ChiChi held his hand lightly, unclenching his fist, playing with his fingers, tracing the hollow of his palm with one fingertip.  He'd had such soft hands as a child, but now his hand was hard and callused, just as Piccolo's had been.  ChiChi had only had the occasion to touch Piccolo's hand once, during the period when Goku had been training on Yardrat; Piccolo had seen her crying and had rested a heavy hand on her shoulder, in an awkward gesture of comfort.  It had surprised him just as much as it had her, ChiChi was sure, but she had rested her fingers over his for the few seconds that Piccolo had allowed her to before he pulled away.

Now, feeling the roughness of Kioku's palm, the hard calluses on his fingers, ChiChi fought not to cry.  Her little boy had grown up so much, and she hadn't been there to see any of it . . . she had struggled all through Kioku's infancy to make sure that he didn't have a childhood like Piccolo's had been, harsh and unforgiving, but for all her attempts it had happened anyway.  Nothing ChiChi did to protect anyone ever worked out, be they Goku or either of their sons.

As she caressed Kioku's fingertips, ChiChi remembered how Kioku's soft fingers used to curl around hers when they went on walks, and how warm his hands had been.  She remembered how he used to fling his short arms around her neck whenever she was sad, and how he would plant wet baby kisses on the end of her nose.  How he would touch her face curiously when she cried, wiping the tears away with one chubby thumb.  She remembered how he would entangle his fingers in her hair, how that brought him comfort no matter what had disturbed him.  

Almost reverently, ChiChi slipped her index finger in Kioku's hand, not expecting his fingers to close over hers but desperately wishing they would.  When they didn't, when Kioku didn't sit up with that gleeful "Fooled you!" glint in his eyes that would make ChiChi instantly forgive him, despite whatever prank he had pulled, ChiChi knew.  Right then, it hit her that he was dead.  She had known all along, of course, but it was that one realization that drove it home.

Surprisingly enough, she didn't cry.  It was as though that thought had erased her grief, for the time being, and all she could do was act on autopilot and natural motherly instinct.  She continued washing his body, ignoring the odd bends in his back or legs when a bone jutted out unnaturally, not thinking of what she was doing, but performing the task with a kind of surreal calmness.  

Once he was clean, ChiChi looked him over.  If it weren't for the broken bones and the various cuts and abrasions, Kioku could almost be taken to be asleep . . . which was how she wanted it to be.  She wanted her little boy to look peaceful . . . though he wasn't smiling, he still looked angelic.  He was beautiful, ChiChi thought to herself, as she rubbed a finger between his eyes to remove the frown lines there.

Leaving him wrapped in her shawl for the time being, ChiChi ran up one flight of stairs to her room, where she fished around in her closet for the boxes of Gohan's old clothes.  Sentimental to the point where her husband and friends teased her continually, ChiChi had insisted on keeping everything her older son wore.  After searching through various pairs of overalls and t-shirts, ChiChi finally smiled grimly in satisfaction and pulled out what she was looking for.

  


A deep purple training suit with a dark blue belt, with orange slipper-shoes and a white cape and turban.  ChiChi had once kidded Piccolo that without the latter items he looked like an eggplant, green and purple, but the Namekusejin had just snorted at her and said that vegetables were Saiyajin territory, not his, and that if she should make fun of anyone for wearing that style of clothing it should be Gohan.  Now, she carried the carefully-folded gi and shoes (minus the turban and cape, since ChiChi didn't want to dress Kioku in weighted clothing) in her arms, back down to the bathroom.

Bulma was still washing Trunks, not looking up, and ChiChi noted with relief that the lavender-haired boy's head was still covered with Gohan's gi.  Passing them, ChiChi knelt down by Kioku's body and removed her shawl, lifting the boy partway into her lap.  It took a few minutes, but soon Kioku was dressed in the same guise as his birth father, and the sight made ChiChi smile a little.  Even in his state, Kioku managed to look adorable.  That thought tore through ChiChi's heart like someone had stabbed her, but she forced the threat of tears back once more.

"I'll be back, Bulma," ChiChi announced softly, though Bulma did not reply, and ChiChi scooped Kioku back up into her arms.  He felt as light as the clothes he was wearing, and a small sob escaped ChiChi before she could stop herself.  She forced herself to remain calm, however, as she did not want to drop Kioku or anything equally horrible, and she walked slowly, almost regally up the stairs to his bedroom — though all she wanted to do was sink to her knees, clutch her baby to her, and cry.

But he wasn't her baby anymore.  He was eight years old — when Gohan had been that age, he had already seen his father die, had been trained by the Demon King and befriended him, had watched his best friend sacrifice himself for him, had fought and nearly been killed in several battles, had travelled across space . . . and Kioku, while he hadn't experienced that weight, was just as much a grown man as he was a boy.  Except with Kioku, his responsibilities had killed him.

ChiChi shuddered as she reached his bedroom — she had avoided entering there after receiving the phone call on the answering machine.  It had been far too painful for her.  Now, seeing the toys and clothes scattered over the room in typical little-boy disarray, ChiChi's eyes began burning suspiciously, but she didn't try to blink back the tears.  It would have been futile anyway.

"Sleep tight, Kioku-chan," she whispered, unthinkingly, as she tucked her son into bed, arranging the covers under his chin the way he liked them, and she turned away quickly.  ChiChi kicked herself, because the reason for turning away was so Kioku wouldn't have to see her crying . . . it was funny how her habits overrode what she knew was true.

"Sweet dreams," ChiChi wished him all the peace he could have in the Other World, and she blew him a kiss, smiling softly.  "Say hi to Goku-san for me, all right, little one?"

Sighing, ChiChi flicked off the light and made her way back down to see how Bulma was doing.

The older woman was bent over Trunk's body, cleaning away the blood and grime with almost military precision, a blank look on her face.  No expression at all darkened her features; she could have been washing the windows for all the emotion she was displaying, but ChiChi knew better.  That empty expression was the same one that had been present after the city was burned, when she, Bulma, and Gohan had returned to Mt. Paozu, knowing their loved ones would never come back.  

At least Bulma wasn't forcing cheerfulness this time.  That was even more destructive, and whenever she tried to do it, Bulma had always ended up in hysterics, with either Gohan or ChiChi trying to comfort her.  When that happened, the only one who could bring her out of her stupor had been little Trunks, who, as a toddler, would crawl into her lap and tell her not to cry.  It took a while, but Bulma always ended up smiling.

ChiChi winced, feeling a fresh stab of pain on Bulma's account.  Her baby couldn't help her anymore, and what made it worse for Bulma than for ChiChi was that Trunks was her own flesh and blood, carried and given birth to by Bulma herself, whereas Kioku was, technically, Piccolo's child.  It was painful enough for ChiChi to have her adopted son taken away from her, but she realized it must be even worse for Bulma.  She turned away, not watching anymore, not wanting to intrude.

At last, a funny, strangled sound reached ChiChi's ears, and reluctantly she tore her gaze from the window and glanced over at Bulma.  What she saw brought new tears to ChiChi's already red eyes, and she pressed a hand to her mouth in shock, praying that she wouldn't faint or be sick.

  


Bulma had removed the wrapping from Trunks' head.

The boy's skull was in pieces, bleach-white bone sticking through the skin, blood soaking through what was left of his hair and matting it together.  His face was mangled and disfigured, almost to the point of being unrecognizable, and flaps of skin hung loosely over crushed bone.  His blue eyes were glazed and empty, his mouth open and slack.  His forehead was open to the bone, as was the entire left side of his face, and his jaw hung crookedly, dislocated.  Blood caked his skin, the crimson contrasting starkly with the deathly pallour.  

Bulma was attempting to brush his hair, running a comb through the tangled strands, but the bloodied scalp gave way and she was left with a handful of skin, dried blood, and a chunk of lavender . . . a sob rose up in Bulma's throat that sounded suspiciously like she was about to gag, but she continued her efforts, the mask of calm dropped from her face, replaced by torrents of tears and soft cries of anguish.

Pity cut through ChiChi, and she knelt at Bulma's side, slowly covering the woman's hands with her own.  "Let me do it," she offered, quietly. 

"I can't," Bulma's breaths came in quick bursts, and she drew in a long, shuddering gasp, her face wet.  "He's my son, I have to — I have to . . . I can't leave him like this . . ."

"Let me do it," ChiChi repeated, firmly this time, and she took the comb from Bulma's trembling hands.  "You relax.  I'll do it."

Shakily, Bulma nodded, and she looked at ChiChi with the eyes of a frightened child, trapped in the dark with no clue how to find her way home.  "Don't leave him like this," she pleaded.

"I won't," ChiChi squeezed Bulma's shoulder, then gently guided the woman away.  Once Bulma was gone, ChiChi returned to the grim task that awaited her, though she pushed back any feeling of revulsion.  She carefully combed Trunks' hair, using light strokes so she didn't tear the hair from the scalp, wetting the comb in the tub first so she could remove the clumps of dried blood.  It took time, but when ChiChi had finished that task, the mess of Trunks' skull was hidden under his shock of hair, untangled and clean.

It took much longer for the blood to be removed from Trunks' face, for it was difficult to clean the skin where the bones beneath were crushed to powder — or places where the skin had been torn loose, hanging only by a thin flap.  At one point she was forced to relocate Trunks' broken jaw, snapping the bone back into place so she could close his mouth properly.  Bile rose up in ChiChi's throat on several occasions, but each time she swallowed it down dutifully.  She owed it to Bulma, her long-time best friend, to make her son look as peaceful as possible.

At last she closed Trunks' eyes, and using bandages from the cupboard above the sink, ChiChi covered up the worst of the hanging skin or revealed bone.  After a while, she could almost pretend that Trunks had merely gotten into an accident while playing, and was bound up nicely so he could heal.  Bandages covered his forehead and cheek, and some peeked through his hair where ChiChi had applied them to his fractured skull.  It was a skillful job, all in all, but ChiChi could find no pride in it.

She didn't know how to dress him, so she wrapped him instead in a soft bath towel and lifted him into her arms, noting that he was no heavier than Kioku.  He actually appeared younger than his friend, which seemed odd until ChiChi remembered the strange growth patterns of the Namekusejin, and she shook her head.  So many years of their lives these two had spent on their own . . . and she and Bulma had missed them . . .

ChiChi found Bulma in Trunks and Kioku's bedroom, sitting in the middle of the floor with a pile of capsules in her lap.  "Bulma?" ChiChi called softly, a little afraid.  Bulma's expression was haunted, and it was impossible to tell what was going through her mind.

"These were what Trunks took with him," Bulma whispered, "I don't want to look . . . I don't want to b-break down again . . ."

  


"Don't look at them, then," ChiChi suggested, holding out Trunks' form.  "Here.  I don't know what you want to dress him in, so I just left him . . ."

"Saiyajin armour," Bulma replied in a low voice, taking Trunks and holding him to her like he was an infant again.  "I'm sure that's what he and Vegeta would have wanted."

ChiChi just nodded, choosing to leave Bulma alone for now.  "Are you going to be all right?" she inquired on her way to the door, and was answered by a nod.

Bulma smiled, though it wasn't much more than a vague upward lift to one corner of her mouth, and it didn't reach her eyes.  "Thank you for - for cleaning him up, ChiChi . . . I can't tell you how much I appreciate that."

"No problem at all," ChiChi smiled back, equally as unconvincing.  "Good night, Bulma."

"Good night."

Bulma waited until ChiChi had left, her footfalls soft and silent, like she was leaving a sacred burial tomb.  Bulma winced, and she stared at Trunks for a few long moments, silently thanking and praising ChiChi for the forethought to bandage the worst of Trunks' injuries, for it made him much easier to look at.  She trailed the tip of her finger over the bandages, wondering what had gone wrong in Trunks' head that had made him think he could defeat the _jinzouningen_ with only Kioku as his ally.

She snorted, knowing perfectly well what was the matter with Trunks — he was Vegeta's son, and that was more than enough to explain any hard-headedness and arrogance when fighting was involved.  The entire Saiyajin race — Vegeta especially, but Son Goku wasn't exempt, either — was cursed with an insane overconfidence when it came to their personal fighting abilities.  Bulma knew it wasn't fair to blame Trunks when it was in his blood.

And now, his blood was all over the streets . . . 

"Shut up, Bulma," she hissed, scowling.  Her facade was swiftly beginning to crack, the reality of the situation slamming into her again . . . as much as she had pushed it back, pretending that he had just been injured in a heavy sparring match, it wasn't working.  Her eyes were stinging.

To distract herself, Bulma picked Trunks up, cradling him close as though her presence could restore him to life.  "Let's get you dressed, okay, kiddo'?" she suggested, making her way across the room, stepping over toys and clothes as she walked to the closet.  Trunks and Kioku always lived like whirlwinds, tossing their personal belongings everywhere, leaving their toys for everyone to trip over and laughing hysterically when someone did.

The thought brought a reluctant smile to Bulma's face, though it was only there for a fleeting second.  Holding Trunks in one arm, Bulma rifled through the closet until she found the Saiyajin armour hanging in the very back, and she dressed Trunks with a strange reverence.  First the black bodysuit, which stretched tightly over Trunks' muscles, then the white and gold armour.  

Tears slid down Bulma's cheeks as she remembered the look of pride on Vegeta's face when eight-month-old Trunks had stubbornly insisted, in his broken vocabulary, that he wanted to train with his father, and after a few unsuccessful months of trying to convince him otherwise, Bulma had relented.  On Trunks' first birthday, Bulma had presented them with a matching pair of Royal Saiyajin combat armour, and though Vegeta had scoffed at her and said that it was ridiculous to dress a half-breed in royal armour, he had rested a hand on his son's head, ruffling his hair just slightly.  Bulma caught the look that Vegeta had sent Trunks, and she'd smiled — Vegeta smirked back at her, but something in his eyes showed the thanks he felt.

  


Bulma sniffed as she tucked Trunks in bed next to Kioku, half-expecting the Namekusejin boy to snuggle up to Trunks in his sleep like he always did.  When he didn't, Bulma smacked her forehead and turned her back on the pair of boys, leaving the room quickly.  She heard the noise of the television downstairs, and she followed the sound to the family room, where ChiChi sat on the couch, watching the screen intently.

"What are you looking at?" Bulma asked quietly, noting the look of sadness on ChiChi's face as she sat, her cheek resting on one hand.  Bulma came and settled down next to her, looking at the television. 

"Remember when Goku gave Kuririn a video camera for his birthday?" ChiChi smiled faintly, "And he was such a nuisance with it?  Remember, we had a get-together to celebrate, and he ran around with the camera, trying to catch everyone in — how did he put it?"

"Compromising situations," Bulma finished, nodding in agreement.  "Yeah.  Is this the start of it?"

ChiChi smiled. "Yes, supper is being cooked and now Kuririn starts his little mission . . ."

Both women stopped speaking and turned to the television screen.

_"And now: Mission Impossible," Kuririn murmured, panning the camera around, showing the view of the Capsule Corp. compound.  "My mission, if I choose to accept it, is to find everyone in embarrassing, heartwarming" — he snickered — "hilarious, or otherwise compromising situations.  The purpose: who cares!  It's funny!  And hey, it might provide good memories somewhere down the road, who knows.  Will I accept?" he turned the camera around, focussing on his face, and he raised an eyebrow.  "Well, duh!  Of course I will!"_

_Chuckling to himself behind the camera, Kuririn snuck through bushes and flower gardens, looking for his first victims. After a few minutes of nature shots, the former monk gave up on the outdoors.  "Guess everyone's gone inside," he muttered.  "Well, darn it.  Oh well, I'll just have to look in the house, then!"_

_The screen showed several rooms as Kuririn swung the camera back and forth, trying to find someone.  At last, the screen was filled with a frilly, white apron, and a high-pitched voice cried out, "Why, Kuririn!  Whatever are you doing?"_

_"Uhh, nothing, just uh . . . looking around," Kuririn stammered._

ChiChi made a face goodnaturedly, since the next shots were of Kuririn's rear end; he'd hidden the camcorder behind his back.

_"If you're looking for Goku, he's with his wife and that adorable little mini-Piccolo a few rooms over," Mrs. Briefs told him._

_"Thanks!" Kuririn brought the camera back out and snatched a pastry from the tray, stuffing it into his mouth.  "She may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but wow!  Bulma's Mom makes great food!" he filmed himself again, kissing his fingers in a gesture of approval.  "Mm-mm! That sure hit the spot!  I'm gonna' gain about ten pounds before I get out of here._

_"Now where are Goku and — aha!" Kuririn's voice dropped down to a whisper, and the camera zoomed in on Goku, ChiChi, and the infant Kioku, in one of the spare nurseries.  ChiChi was rocking Kioku to sleep, and Goku stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smiling proudly._

_"There, he's finally asleep, the little darling," ChiChi smiled, kissing Kioku's forehead.  The tiny Namekusejin was chewing on a soother, making cute little sucking noises as he slept.  Several other pacifiers lay on a table beside the chair, chewed to pieces by the infant's sharp fangs._

_Goku laughed and crouched down next to them, sticking his finger in the baby's small fist.  "He's so cute . . . and so tiny!  I don't even think Gohan was this small."_

_  
_

_ChiChi shook her head in agreement.  "Me, neither — but you didn't have to stay here, Goku, go have fun with your friends!"_

_The Saiyajin shrugged.  "It doesn't matter.  Most of them are talking in the other room, Kuririn's disappeared, and Bulma and Vegeta are fighting again.  I'm okay for now," he reached up  and stroked ChiChi's cheek with one finger lightly.  "Besides.  Why wouldn't I want to stay with you?"_

_ChiChi's eyes widened as Goku cupped her face in his hand, smiling at her.  "I - I don't know . . . because . . . you can see me every day, but you don't see your friends very often —"_

_"I'll see 'em again at dinner," Goku argued, "And then you won't let me come anywhere near you 'cause of your thing with 'behaving in public' and all that, right?"_

_She laughed, her cheeks turning red, and the camera zoomed in closer.  "Well, it's true.  The way Bulma and Vegeta act sometimes, I want to give them a key to a hotel and give them a week's rent or something!"_

_Goku threw back his head and laughed, and from behind the camera came a little snicker of acquiescence.  "Hon, you crack me up sometimes!  That's what I love about you!"_

_"I think I hit pay-dirt this time," Kuririn hissed, carefully keeping his voice low.  "I might actually get to see the two of them let their guards down!  Wow!" he paused, releasing a low, embarrassed-sounding chuckle.  "I feel a little weird spying, but it's too late to back down now!"_

_ChiChi smiled again, and Goku raised himself up on his knees, leaned in, and kissed her softly, brushing her hair out of her face._

ChiChi raised a trembling hand and wiped a single tear from her cheek.  She remembered that kiss . . . remembered how tender her Goku had been then . . . how he had made her feel like she was the only woman on the entire planet he had ever laid eyes on.  He had the special ability to make her feel that way each time he kissed her.

_"Aww," Kuririn whispered, "That's so sweet, I think I'm gonna' cry!  I've never seen ChiChi look so . . . so . . . well, so not ready to kill someone!"_

_"Goku," ChiChi mumbled through the kiss, pulling away, "The baby . . ."_

_In reply, Goku grinned rakishly at her and took Kioku, laying him in the crib gently and patting him on the head.  "There," he quirked an eyebrow, extending a hand to ChiChi and pulling her to her feet.  "Now you don't have to worry about him."_

_"You're a rogue, you know that," ChiChi smirked, her gaze flitting over Goku's face, and she ran a hand over his chest and shoulders playfully.  "Anybody could be watching us."_

_"Nobody's watching," Goku assured her, and the camera suddenly zoomed out, giving the viewers a good shot of Kuririn's feet.  "See?" Goku's voice carried out into the hallway.  "There's no one there."_

_Kuririn's face came into view, looking nervous.  "Whew!  That was close.  I don't think Goku would care, but ChiChi'd probably kill me . . . Oh well, nobody said this was gonna' be an easy mission!"_

_Cautiously, the camera peeked around the corner again, and Goku and ChiChi were still standing facing each other, when ChiChi leaned in and kissed Goku firmly on the mouth.  She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, drawing him even deeper into the kiss, and Goku responded eagerly._

_Apparently Kuririn couldn't help himself anymore, for he yelled out, "Woo-hoo!  Way to go, Goku!  Get it on!"_

_  
_

_ChiChi's eyes snapped open and she glared at Kuririn, stiffening and beginning to pull away.  Goku, on the other hand, had other ideas; grabbing ChiChi's waist, he pulled her closer and kissed her with even more ferocity, eliciting a startled squeak from Kuririn, who had obviously not expected this.  With his free arm, Goku raised his hand, middle finger extended, flipping Kuririn the universal one-finger salute._

_ChiChi's eyes narrowed, then she smirked against Goku's mouth and duplicated the middle-finger gesture, closing her eyes and slipping her other hand up beneath the bottom hem of Goku's t-shirt._

_"Okay, okay!" Kuririn squawked, sounding panicked, "You can stop!  You don't have to act like Bulma and Vegeta on me, now!  I'll turn the camera off, just quit it!  I'm gettin' some really disturbing mental pictures now."_

_The pair broke away, laughing hysterically with their chests heaving for lack of air, faces flushed.  "Serves you right for spying, you little dweeb," ChiChi scolded, but her eyes were sparkling with mischief.  "Are you satisfied now, or do you want to stay overnight at our house, too?"_

_"No, no, that's okay," Kuririn stammered, the camera jerking as he backed away rapidly.  "You guys are really weird!  You mean you're not going to kill me?"_

_"Nah," Goku slung an arm around ChiChi's waist amicably.  "ChiChi might poison your food to give you the runs or something, but we'd never _kill_ you . . ."_

_"Aww, gross!  That's disgusting," Kuririn made several gagging noises to emphasize his point.  "Do you know how revolting that is?"_

_ChiChi smirked again.  "Or I could just take that brand-new camera away from you."_

_"Oh no, I'll go terrorize somebody else now," Kuririn laughed, then exclaimed, "Hey!" in protest when Goku reached forward and snatched the camcorder away._

_The screen was filled with a topsy-turvy view of the nursery until the camera focussed on Kioku, still sleeping angelically.  "This is Kioku, my son," Goku announced proudly, "And he's Piccolo's son, too.  Whoa, whoa, wait!  That makes it sound like Piccolo and I had a kid together!" he hurriedly turned the camera around, filming himself with a panicked expression on his face. "That's not what happened, really!" in the background were the sounds of ChiChi and Kuririn laughing._

_He turned the camera back the right way, zooming in close on ChiChi's face.  "And this is my wife, the prettiest girl this side of Namekusei . . . well, where it used to be.  Isn't that right, ChiChi?"_

_ChiChi's face turned even redder, and she placed her hand over the camera lens.  "Goku, stop being an idiot and give that back to Kuririn.  You're as bad as he is!"_

_The screen still dark, only the sound of Goku's voice filtered through.  "Don't you think ChiChi's pretty, Kuririn?"_

_"Well, sure," Kuririn agreed readily.  "I mean, so's Bulma, but you're pretty too, ChiChi."_

_"Oohh, right," Goku grinned, sounding evil even though his face wasn't visible.  "I forgot.  You're the one with the crush on Bulma!"_

_"I do not!" Kuririn burst out indignantly, "She's got a kid now, for pete's sake!  Why would I — oh, never mind!  Here, gimme' that!  You're gonna' embarrass me!"_

_The screen flickered, then went to snow as the power was turned off temporarily._

  


Bulma looked at ChiChi and saw that her friend was crying freely, not even bothering to wipe the tears away.  "We were so happy then," ChiChi sniffled, "I'd stopped being so uptight about not letting Goku hug me in public, and he wasn't taking off to train anymore . . . those were good times . . ."

"Yeah, they were," Bulma replied in a low voice.  "I'd give anything to be able to go back to then . . ."

The screen crackled and came back to life, and ChiChi and Bulma fell silent again.

_Kuririn appeared on the screen, sweat beading up on his forehead and one eyebrow raised.  "Well, I think I learned a little too much about Goku and ChiChi this time," he chuckled nervously, "I hope these memories are worth all the trauma I'm experiencing here . . . eesh!  But I'm going to go to a safe zone now — Bulma and Vegeta are fighting.  I shouldn't have to worry about anything like that happening while they're yelling at each other.  So!  Mission two, here we go!"_

_The camera moved down the hall again, searching empty rooms until vaguely the sounds of angry shouts could be heard in the background, growing gradually louder.  "Oops, I think I'm getting warm!" Kuririn declared joyously.  "This should be entertaining.  I always thought it was funny how these two fight — they're two of the most hotheaded people I know, and that's no joke!"_

_"He's too young to train in there, Vegeta, he's not even a year old!"_

_"When I was his age, I was conquering planets!"_

_"That's exactly why I want to keep him away from you, you psychopath!  I don't want my little baby wandering off and destroying the neighbours' houses!"_

_"Arrghh . . . Tell me, woman, can the brat walk?"_

_"Well, obviously!"_

_"Then he's capable of training!  Honestly, he could probably be a Super Saiyajin by now if you didn't baby him so much!"_

_"Whew," — this comment was from Kuririn — "This sounds like it's gonna' be a doozy of a fight . . ."_

_At last, the camera showed Bulma and Vegeta facing off against each other, in front of the door to the Gravity Room.  Vegeta had his arms crossed over his chest, glaring fiercely, and Bulma stood with one hand on her hip, the other pointed accusingly at Vegeta's face.  Little Trunks stood a few feet back, staring at the two of them with a disinterested expression on his round face._

_"Super Saiyajin?  Do you think I want _my _son becoming a brute like his father?  I don't _think_ so, buster!"_

_"Oh, so he's _your_ son now, is he?" Vegeta sneered, leaning close to Bulma and scowling at her.  "Last time, you were up in arms yelling at me that he was my son, too, and that I should share in the responsibilities!"_

_Bulma bristled, stepping back and crossing both arms in an unconscious parody of Vegeta.  "I was talking about changing dirty diapers, not beating him to a bloody pulp, you insensitive oaf!"_

_Vegeta suddenly smirked, and he moved closer to her, one hand coming to rest on her waist.  "You should see yourself when you're angry, woman.  You're quite the spitfire, that's for sure."_

_Bulma's eyes narrowed, and she snarled, "Oh, so you think _flattery_ is going to make me allow you to drag our son into your stupid Gravity Roo — mmph!"_

_  
_

_Vegeta's mouth closed over Bulma's own then, cutting off any protests she was about to make as he slid his arms around her.  Baby Trunks rolled his eyes and plunked down on his diapered bottom, then covered his face with his hands and made disgusted noises._

_"If you think" — Bulma's words were all but unintelligible — "this is going to do you any goo —" she gave up trying to speak and slipped her arms around Vegeta's neck._

_"Oh man!" Kuririn hissed in dismay. "What _is_ it with everyone today?  I might as well turn the camera off — I'm gonna' be sick if this keeps up much longer . . ." but he didn't, choosing instead to zoom in on the couple's faces.  "Ah well, maybe this'll be good blackmail material later."_

_Suddenly, Bulma's expression changed subtly; her eyes opened for a second, glittering with something unidentifiable, then she pressed herself even closer to Vegeta, pulling his face nearer hers.  Vegeta fought back for a few more seconds, trying to maintain leadership of the kiss, but soon it was obvious who was dominating and who was submitting, and he relaxed, allowing Bulma to do what she wanted._

_"This is crazy," Kuririn whispered.  "Vegeta's . . . he's letting Bulma have control? Wow, who'd've thought that?"_

_At last, Bulma pulled away, and by the broad smirk on her face, she knew she had won.  Vegeta grimaced, but he lifted a hand and ran his fingers through her chin-length turquoise hair.  "Fine, woman . . . I'll wait a few more months before beginning his training, are you happy now?"_

_"That's good enough," Bulma shook her head teasingly.  "You should know better than to try to argue _that_ way, Vegeta.  I always win."_

_"Only because I let you," he grumped, but one corner of his mouth quirked upward._

_"That's still something," Bulma tweaked his nose, laughing when the Saiyajin jerked away.  "I don't see you letting Son-kun win sparring matches."_

_Little Trunks spoke up, sounding annoyed.  "Trunks leave," he muttered, "Not see icky kissy-kissy," he passed by the camera and waved a pudgy hand.  "Hi, Kuri'n-san."_

_"CUEBALL??!" Vegeta roared, pulling away from Bulma.  "WHERE IS HE?!"_

_"Oh no!" Kuririn squeaked, evidently scared out of his wits, "I'm getting out of here!"_

_The view from the camera spun crazily as it dropped to the ground, landing on its base with the lens pointing straight up.  An angry Vegeta came into view, upside-down, one hand poised to destroy the offending device.  "That stupid weakling . . . I'll make him pay for that, just as soon as I get rid of this stupid camera!"_

_Bulma's hand suddenly appeared in front of Vegeta's, lacing their fingers together.  "Aw, Vegeta, who cares?  Everyone has seen us together already, and he's not doing any harm," her other hand came to rest on Vegeta's cheek, lightly caressing his face.  "Leave the poor guy alone.  It's his birthday!"_

_An expression crossed Vegeta's face that on anyone else could have been described as affectionate, and he mellowed beneath her touch.  "All right," he grunted, then the scowl slid in place once more.  "But if I see this stupid thing pointed at me again, then that's it!" he bent and picked up the camera, then hurled it in the direction of the swiftly-retreating Kuririn. "Here, baldy!  Catch!"_

_The camera then showed a close-up shot of Kuririn's hands as he caught it, then panned up to his face again.  He looked absolutely terrified.  "Well, I think that's enough of Mission Impossible for today," he declared shakily, "I - I've come close enough to death now!  I don't even want to watch this video anymore . . . I think I'll give it to Bulma or ChiChi. I'm sure they'd get a kick out of this."_

_  
_

_Holding the camera with one hand, Kuririn flipped off a jaunty salute.  "Well, until next time, this is Kuririn, signing off.  Join us on the next episode of Mission Impossible, when I go on another dangerous mission like . . . like filming flowers and bunny rabbits.  To anyone else who ever watches this, see ya'!"_

ChiChi flicked off the television and looked at Bulma, noting that the other woman looked every bit as miserable as ChiChi herself felt.  "Well . . ." her voice wavered and her eyes burned, but no tears came.  For the time being, she was dried out, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and never wake up.  "We'd better get some sleep, we - we've got a big day tomorrow."

She got to her feet slowly, feeling like someone had drained all her energy, leaving her an empty husk of a person.  Bulma stayed on the couch, whispering, "They're all gone . . . I have no one left . . ."

For once, ChiChi couldn't think of anything to say — so rather than worsen the situation with clumsy condolences, she left Bulma alone with her inner demons and slowly dragged herself upstairs to bed.

_Memories are a curse,_ she thought bitterly, knowing her words were angry but realizing they were true at the same time.  _They shove happiness in your face and dangle it right in front of you, reminding you of what's been taken away and can never come back.  _ChiChi squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the wall, clenching her fists tightly.  _It's not right for people to lose their entire lives . . . it's not _right!

Of course, it was irrelevant what was right or wrong anymore.  Those luxuries didn't exist in hell.  With a defeated, broken sigh, ChiChi turned back up the stairs and headed to her room — to the bed that had been half empty for seven long, lonely years . . .

******

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and the Capsule Corp. compound was ablaze with light — but the beauty was a counterfeit, masking the solemnity of the situation at hand.  In the back lot, next to seven other gravestones, three figures stood, heads bent, shoulders shaking, staring at the freshly-dug hole in the ground, and at the casket that lay beside it.

Gohan had risen early and cut down a tree to make it himself, not wanting to use manufactured coffins for the two little ones when their fathers had been buried in caskets made from trees in the yard, as well.  The boy had been slightly hesitant to bury Kioku at Capsule Corp. when Piccolo's remains were scattered over his beloved waterfall, but he hadn't wanted to argue with the grief-stricken mothers.  They were distraught enough already.

The two boys lay side by side in the same coffin — Bulma and ChiChi had stated that, since the children were inseparable in life, there was no reason to force their bodies to spend eternity alone.  Both were clean and dressed, and to all appearances could have been sleeping peacefully, Kioku curled up at Trunks' side like he used to when they were alive.

"I feel like I should say something meaningful," Gohan murmured, standing in front of the casket with his head bowed.  "But it's just . . . I can't think of anything to say . . ." he glanced up at the sun peering over the mountain, at the bright splashes of colour in the sky, and he glared.  How dare nature make such a beautiful day?  How could the Earth be happy when two of her children were being buried?  It should be raining!  It always rained in the movies when a tragic event occurred . . . why wasn't it raining now?

"You guys were great kids," Gohan pushed his irrational anger aside, knowing it was useless.  "You . . . you acted so innocent, even through everything that happened to you, but you knew how to be grown up, too.  You went to fight something that even the bravest people on this planet are too scared to.  You . . ." he choked, swallowing hard, and knuckled his eyes.  He couldn't cry.  Not in front of Bulma and his mother.  "You were the best darn kids I ever met.  I'm sorry to see you go.  Say hi to Dad, Vegeta, and Piccolo-san for me, and give them a big hug from me . . ."

He knelt by the coffin and pressed a hand to each boy's forehead in turn, wishing his touch could bring them back to the physical plane.  "I love you guys . . . I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you.  If I could have even five minutes with you again, I'd tell you how sorry I am, and how much I'm going to miss you . . ."

  


ChiChi was next, though she was crying too hard to speak clearly.  "I love you, Kioku-chan" she managed to say, "I'm going to miss that grin of yours . . . I'm going to miss your hugs . . . I'm going to miss everything about you . . . I have to live knowing for sure that I'll never see you again . . . that you won't be there when I'm old and grey, that Gohan-chan is going to have to deal with me all by himself . . ." she squared her shoulders bravely, though she felt anything but brave.  "And Trunks . . . you were my little one's best friend.  Without you, I don't think he could have made it through losing his Daddy . . . I want to thank you for being there . . . for taking care of my son . . . I hope you two have fun in the Other World . . ." she squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears leaked through anyway and her words were all but unintelligible.  "Give your father a big kiss for me . . . and hug Piccolo, too.  If he tries to hit you, just tell him it's from me . . ."

She collapsed, kissing Kioku's cheek, and after a moment's hesitation, brushed her lips lightly across Trunks' forehead.  "Have a good rest, you two . . . you've earned it," after that, Chichi turned to her son and wept in his arms, grateful for his strength — even though she knew most of it was a front.

Bulma just stared at her son without speaking, knowing if she did she would lose what little composure she had managed to scrape together.  She forcibly kept her gaze away from ChiChi, who was crying fiercely, her entire body shaking from the force of her tears.  Gohan had his arms wrapped around her, supporting her, letting his mother get all her emotions out.  Bulma chewed on her thumbnail, wishing that she had someone — anyone — to hold her in her grief.  It didn't even have to be Vegeta . . . Yamucha, Son-kun, Kuririn-kun . . . even Chaozu or even _Yajirobe_ would do.  Just _someone_ to hold her, to take the weight for even a few minutes. 

"I love you, Trunks," she whispered, surprised at how cracked her voice sounded.  It was like someone had taken every part of her and broken them into pieces . . . and it certainly felt that way.  "Half the time you were an arrogant little brat, just like your father . . . but just like him, you knew exactly when I needed you.  Even if I did only know you for four years . . . not even that . . ."

She kissed his forehead as ChiChi had done, brushing what was left of his hair out of his closed eyes.  "I love you," she repeated, then traced a finger down Kioku's soft cheek lightly.  "Thanks for being Trunks' friend, Kioku-chan.  I'll miss you, too — and I'm not just saying that to be polite," Bulma swallowed, feeling depression creeping up on her once more, and she mustered up an affectionate smile.  "Have fun, kids . . . you've got eternity to play now, and I hope you make the most of it.  Bug all the fighters for me, will you?  Don't ever stop being pranksters . . ."

That done, any pretense at being strong dissolved completely, and Bulma sank to the ground, hunched forward like an old woman, digging her fingers into the lawn and ripping out stalks of grass violently.  She wanted to scream — she wished she was a warrior, just to have the power to blow something up.  To _do_ something with her anger, her pain.  Anything but just sitting there, alone.

Completely alone.

_I don't have anyone,_ Bulma thought suddenly, _They're all gone.  Vegeta, Son-kun, Yamucha, Trunks . . . anyone I ever talked to about anything important, anything that bothered me . . . they're all gone!  ChiChi has Gohan to take care of her, but I - I don't have anyone at all!  I'm stuck here until I die, pretending to be strong so I don't worry ChiChi any more than I have to, and I won't see them until I'm dead.  Maybe not even then!  Who knows where warriors go when they die . . ._

ChiChi roused herself from her fit of sobbing and raised her face from Gohan's chest, watching Bulma weeping hopelessly.  It was then that it struck her just how _alone_ her best friend was, with no one left to protect her.  Her entire family had been taken away from her by the _jinzouningen_, who would probably high-five and consider it an accomplishment that they'd ruined yet another life.  ChiChi ground her teeth together in rage, then brought herself under control and touched Gohan's shoulder.

He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised.  "Go to her," ChiChi requested, jerking her head in Bulma's direction.  "I'm fine now, but she - she needs someone to cry on.  I'm not strong enough."

  


Something twitched in Gohan's face at that last part, but he didn't argue.  Still, ChiChi pressed on.  "Pretend she's your mother, Gohan-chan.  Pretend she's me.  Just comfort her — she needs someone."

Gohan nodded.  "Yes, Mom."

Bulma was still crying when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and her head snapped up in surprise.  A concerned Gohan was bent over her, the teenager's face taut with worry.  "Bulma-san, do you need a hug?" he asked, and for a moment he sounded so innocent . . . so like the sweet little boy he used to be before all this death.

He sounded like her Trunks-chan.

Wordlessly, Bulma flung herself at Gohan, feeling his arms around her, protecting her, as he rested his cheek on the top of her head.  He held her as she wept, her body convulsing like an unbalanced air car, and Bulma twisted the material of his gi in her fingers and buried her face in his shirt.  "Thank you, Gohan," she whispered.

"No problem, Bulma-san," Gohan replied softly, "I'm here as long as you need me for.  I know it must be hard to lose your whole family.  If it helps, I - I can be your son, too, if you want."

With a loud, incoherent sob, Bulma wrapped her arms around Gohan and hugged him, thanking the departed spirit of Kami-sama that ChiChi had such a sensitive son.  "I'd like that," was all she managed to say.

At last Gohan pulled away.  "C'mon, Bulma-san, we have to finish up," squeezing her shoulder, Gohan crouched next to the coffin and closed the lid, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his heart at the act of closure.  He could see Bulma and ChiChi straining for one last view of their sons, but he didn't wait for them to get a better look.  It would hurt much less that way.

Using his ki, Gohan lifted the casket and set it in the grave carefully, not wanting to jostle the occupants inside.  When he felt the coffin touch bottom he released his energy, and he looked at the others.  "Well, that's it," he declared, his voice empty, and he dropped to one knee beside the hole.  Picking up a handful of soft, red dirt, Gohan let the soil slip through his fingers onto the top of the casket.  Bulma and ChiChi followed his example, letting the dirt trail down like tears.  Both of them were bravely trying not to cry, though Gohan didn't know why they bothered.

They all scooped the dirt into the hole then, each wanting a part of the burial no matter how much pain it caused.  Each felt the horror at having to bury a son, a brother, or a friend, but each believed they needed to help — it provided a sense of closure that would eventually end the hurt and begin the healing.

When they had finished, Gohan straightened up, looking at the sun, which was now fully above the horizon.  In the field a few metres away, a pair of birds burst from the grass, flying about in crazy circles and twirling around each other in some sort of dizzy game.  A smile touched Gohan's lips that was neither bitter nor angry, and he watched the birds playing with a sudden sense of peace.

_There you are,_ he smiled at them, _I see your spirits in those birds . . . I hope you have fun for the rest of eternity, until I can play with you again . . ._

Wondering what Gohan was looking so pleased about, both ChiChi and Bulma followed his gaze to the frolicking birds.  The two women looked at each other and shared a small, understanding smile.

******

Wow … poor family!  Next time on Deeper Than Colour: the boys in the Other World.  But what's this?  Who do they meet, what was that about loopholes, and training with _who_??

Oh yeah – this is to Jesscheaux:  I know I use a lot of Japanese, though not as much as some people.  I don't speak and write it fluently, but I'm learning.


	7. A Child No Longer

Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. Can you imagine if I did? There would be 2 - 3 months in between each episode! 

A/N: Sorry it's so late, everyone . . . it's just because I update one chapter of this, then one chapter of "Damsel in Distress," then one chapter of this, etc. .... That way, I don't ignore either set of fans for too long ... 

Ugh. You can't imagine how hard this chapter was to write - and it kept getting longer! There's no action, obviously, but hey - if there was action in every chapter, there would be no development, now would there! 

In this installment, Kioku -- well, no. You read it, you figure it out! Hah! I won't give anything away for you this time. 

About the formatting - I'll have that fixed by tomorrow morning, okay? I don't think the lack of italics will make it hard to understand or anything - I hope. ()):^) (That's a Piccolo smiley! Kittioto made it up ..... I saw it on her "imood" page a while ago) 

Oh yeah - whoever left that last review on chapter 6 as "Deeper Than Colour" -- thanks for that! You made my day - I haven't laughed that hard in a long time! ^_^ 

Deeper Than Colour — The Kioku Story

**Chapter Seven: A Child No Longer**

The blackness surrounding him began to swirl and eddy, and light poured forth from an opening in the void.  He had no idea what was going on, but four of the five personalities inside him had been through this experience, and they told him to follow the light.  One of them snorted at the cliche phrase, but he was ignored by the others.

He wasn't sure to which personality his body belonged, but after sifting through the various lifetimes, he selected the youngest and most recent as the one that fit.  The others confirmed this, and while he continued to spin in the abyss that surrounded him, he checked the details of whom he was.

His name was Son Kioku . . . he had two fathers, a mother, a brother, and a best friend.  He was a warrior — or, at least, had attempted to be one, since the _jinzouningen_ he was fighting had killed him.

Kioku snapped his eyes open wide (not that it made any difference), realizing for the first time the transition between life and death — was that what was happening to him?  Wow . . . despite the gnawing fear inside his stomach, a wide grin split Kioku's face.  _Cool_!

_Hey_, he thought,_ I don't hurt anymore_!

His next thought was, _Where's Trunks-kun_?

Anything else was interrupted as his booted feet hit solid ground, jarring slight pain up his legs, then light exploded all around him.  Kioku threw his hand over his eyes (_Hey, if I'm okay now, why do I still only have one arm?_) and peered cautiously between his fingers until the glare receded.

Kioku stood on a long, grey hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, on both sides of him.  All around the road floated puffy, orange-yellow clouds, and the sky appeared to be in a constant state of sunrise.  It might have been pretty, but the analogous colours of yellow and orange lent an air of monotony and depression to the scene.  Kioku felt tired and heavy.

Something bumped into him impatiently, and Kioku swung around to see a multitude of small, cloudlike creatures behind him.  He couldn't understand their speech, which consisted of warbles and giggles, but somehow they managed to convey the impression of annoyance.  After glancing around and discovering ghostlike creatures on either side of him, Kioku realized he was standing in line . . . and he was holding it up.

Apologizing quickly, not wanting to be attacked by a horde of cotton-candy look-alikes, Kioku hastened forward a few feet.  He didn't know what he was in line _for_, but at least it gave him something to do while he attempted to grasp what had happened to him.

He was dead.  That was the safest way to go about things, Kioku figured — lying to oneself never solved anything.  Surprisingly — to Kioku, at least — he felt no remorse, no fear, no regret — only a shallow emptiness.  Being dead seemed no different from living, though Kioku didn't know why.  He knew he should be feeling _something_, but was at a loss as to what.

Shock.  It had to be shock.  That was the only explanation Kioku could contrive, and it seemed the most probable one.  Once the numbness wore off his mind, Kioku figured the reality would slam into him.  He might as well enjoy the emptiness inside him before it transformed into something worse.

Hours passed as the line shuffled slowly forward, and after what seemed an eternity, Kioku looked around again.  His surroundings hadn't changed one bit, the line hadn't grown any shorter, and he still couldn't see where it was headed.

  


_I could be here forever_, Kioku shuddered, and since he was dead with nothing else to do, the possibility was all too real.  _I could just stand in this line, moving a few feet every ten minutes, forever and ever and ever . . . all by myself . . . all alone . . ._

_Alone . . ._

As soon as that thought was processed, Kioku saw his mother standing in front of him, arms outstretched, smiling.  "Kioku-chan!" she called, inviting him to run to her.

"Mom!" the child exclaimed, taking an excited step forward, knocking the squealing cloud-things out of the way.  He ran frantically toward his mother, but two steps away from her, she shimmered and disappeared.  Kioku was left alone in a crowd of spirits who appeared to be glaring at him. 

". . . Mom?" Kioku repeated softly, his voice cracking with anguish.  Tears gathered in his eyes as he realized he had been the victim of a hallucination.  "Stupid," he whispered hoarsely.

Kioku squeezed his eyes shut to block everything out, silently willing himself to appear in his home.  He'd give his other arm just to be with his mother again, and that was even if he _didn't_ know he could regenerate.  All those years, thinking he'd see her again, only to be taken away from her when he was _this close_ to seeing her again!

One of the so-called perks of being Namekusejin was the telekinesis — but Kioku always hated it.  Before his death, sometimes at night he would dream of his mother . . . he could see her cry herself to sleep, or look through photo albums until the pages nearly fell apart.  At first he had thought them only dreams, but after a year or so, Kioku had recognized the visions to be what they really were — extensions of the bond he shared with his mother.  Through their mental link, Kioku could see her.

Now, behind his closed eyelids, Kioku saw an image form; a stone grave marker with his and Trunks' names carved into its surface.  In front of the grave, knelt a crouched figure, bent double with weeping, dressed in a black mourning dress.  Raven hair spilled over her hunched shoulders, and tears dropped from her chin.  Without seeing her face, Kioku knew his mother was heartbroken.  Presently, Gohan came and knelt beside her, wrapping his arms around her, and Mom collapsed in his arms, sobbing.

He whimpered a little as the image faded, and Kioku opened his eyes to feel tears sliding down his cheeks.  Only soft, broken sounds escaped his throat, and he began trembling, all the while trying desperately to be brave.  He had to be strong for himself now — no one was left to comfort him.

One of the cloud creatures flew up to his shoulder and babbled in his ear, sounding vaguely sympathetic.  Kioku shoved it away.  So _this_ was what it was like to be dead.  It wasn't that bad in and of itself, but to leave his family and friends behind . . .  to leave them alone to mourn . . . to spend eternity without them, never knowing if he would see them again . . .

He could handle being dead, since so far it wasn't much different from living, except a lot more boring.  But to know that he was abandoning his mother to her misery, to live in sadness the rest of her life, was too much for the sensitive child to handle.

His self-control was slipping as rapidly as sand through a sieve with wide holes, and he might have lost it completely had a voice not cut through the inane chatter of the cloud beings.  A young boy's voice, slightly scratchy, sounding completely exasperated.

"Lemme' go, you big ugly morons!  I wasn't doing anything wrong, I just didn't wanna' stand in this stupid line forever!"

Kioku's ears pricked up, and he knuckled his eyes, drying his tears.  Only one person could have that voice . . . and if Kioku was right, perhaps death wouldn't be as bleak as he'd thought.

"Listen, you idiots, my Dad is a Prince!  And he's dead too, so if you mess with me, then you're gonna' hafta' answer to him, and you don't want that!"

  


That settled it.  It _had_ to be Trunks.  No other child possessed that amount of arrogance.

"Don't make me go Super Saiyajin and kick your butts!"

"_Trunks-kun_!" Kioku squealed excitedly, hovering above the crowd of spirits, trying to find where his friend was.  After a while, Kioku spotted a large tussle about a mile ahead, and he took off in that direction.  "Trunks-kun, is that you?"

The scuffling noises halted for a second, then came an exclamation that made Kioku's fears as insubstantial as a cast-off snake skin.  "Kiku?"

With a joyous shout, Kioku hurled himself at the crowd of figures.  Most of them, burly, ogre-like creatures, moved hastily out of his trajectory, but the messy-haired demi-Saiyajin just grinned like a maniac.  Kioku grabbed Trunks in a fierce, one-armed embrace, tears streaming from his eyes.

The two boys fell to the road, hugging, laughing, crying, and babbling all at once.  Eventually, Kioku gained some control, and he sat up, releasing Trunks from his death-grip.  "I'm glad you're dead, too," Trunks declared with characteristic frankness.  "I woulda' been awful lonely without you here," just before the moment crossed the line to sentimental, he smirked wickedly.  "Now we can play pranks on people!"

"I know," Kioku's eyes glittered with good-natured malice, when suddenly, Trunks scowled.

"Whaddaya' looking at, ugly?" Trunks demanded, glaring at one of the ogres, who was blinking rapidly and staring at them.  "Do you have a problem?  'Cause I'm warning you, my Dad — "

The ogre whom Kioku assumed was the leader, shook his head and pushed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.  "I don't care who your father i_th_," he lisped peevishly, his funny-sounding voice making Kioku want to laugh.  "You were cutting in line.  That'_th_ clearly in violation of _Th_ection "A23-B12-Alpha, rule number — "

A devilish grin split Trunks' face, and without warning, he grabbed Kioku's arm and took to the air. "Let's go!" he shouted, yanking Kioku after him.

Momentary confusion was replaced by amusement as Kioku recognized the familiar spontaneity of his friend's getaway schemes.  "Where are we going?" he demanded as they left the indignant ogres behind, the leader waving a clipboard and pen, shouting furiously.

"I dunno'," Trunks called back, turning somersaults in the air and pulling funny faces to make Kioku laugh.  "But it's gotta' be better than listening to that stupid-head."

Kioku's mouth quirked, and he nodded in agreement.  "Yeah.  I suppose so."

Trunks lifted a sarcastic eyebrow.  "You 'suppose so'?  What kinda' grownup stuffy talk is that?"

Before Kioku could think of a suitable retort, both he and Trunks were brought up short against something hard and immovable.  Pain slammed into Kioku's head, and he clutched his forehead.  "Ow!" he complained, hearing Trunks agreeing with him in much more colourful language.

"Your first day in Other World and you're already causing trouble!  What are we going to do with you two?"

The Namekusejin froze; he _knew_ that voice!  Opening his eyes, Kioku saw a pain of blue boots with a red stripe down the centre — scarcely daring to breathe, Kioku let his gaze run slowly upward, taking in an orange training suit, blue belt, black T-shirt . . . and finally, a familiar, smiling face framed by wild, spiky black hair.  A face he only remembered from a few faded photographs and snatches of memory.

Son Goku grinned.  "Are you going to say anything, or what, tiger?"

  


A few more seconds elapsed while Kioku stood frozen, paralyzed by shock, before he was able to regain control of himself.  When the dam finally snapped, Kioku found himself in his father's arms, sobbing hysterically, pressing his face into Dad's shirt.

So many emotions crowded around him that he didn't know what to think.  Happiness, first of all, at seeing his father after so many years; regret, for being too young to prevent his father's death, and for seven years without him; and finally, sorrow — that he was reunited with his father while his mother was all alone with her grief.

"I missed you, Dad!" Kioku choked out, tears running into his nose and making him sniffle.  The inadequacy of the statement shamed him, but he couldn't think of anything better.  "I missed you for so long, it's been driving me insane!"

Still crying, Kioku felt his father's arms come up around him, holding him tightly.  "I missed you too, son," Dad's voice was soft and calm, not worked up at all, but somehow Kioku sensed the emotion behind his words.  "I've watched you every chance I get.  Your mother, too."

"It almost makes dying worthwhile, just to see you again," Kioku breathed deeply, inhaling Dad's long-familiar scent — it was one of the few things he could recall without the aid of a photograph.

Dad's smile was evident in his tone, though Kioku couldn't see his face.  "I know what you mean."

With that, any ability to speak evaporated completely, and Kioku hugged his father even closer, too happy to do anything else.  "I love you, Daddy," he whispered, his command of the language disintegrating into pure joy.

Dad gave him a squeeze, resting his cheek on the top of Kioku's head.  "I know, big guy.  You're a great kid."

In any other situation, Trunks would have considered it his duty to ruin the moment by making a sarcastic crack at the excessive sentimentality, but his attentions were divided.  He didn't even notice the reunion between his best friend and his father.

Trunks was staring, open-mouthed, struck silent, at the man who stood in front of him.  Shorter than Goku, with flaming black hair, a compact, muscled physique, and chiselled features usually pulled into a scowl.  He wore Saiyajin armour identical to Trunks' own.

"D-Dad?" Trunks stammered, feeling as though everything around him had stopped.  He had no idea what to say or do; as an infant without Namekusejin memory abilities the last time they had been together, Trunks knew nothing of his father and how he reacted to things.  Something told him, however, that Vegeta wouldn't take too kindly to open displays of affection.

Trunks reined in his overwhelming joy and bowed stiffly, wishing he could hug him, but judging from Vegeta's facial expression that it wouldn't be welcome.  "It's great to see you again," he said carefully.

Vegeta's dark eyebrows shot up, and he crossed his arms.  "What is that supposed to be?  Is that any way for a warrior to greet his father?"

Trunks brightened, but it wasn't just propriety that held him back; along with that came uncertainty and hesitation of completely different origin.  Here in front of him was the Prince of the Saiyajin race, one of the most powerful warriors on the planet in his time, and a legendary Super Saiyajin.  The proud frown on his face wasn't the only thing that lent an air of aloofness and untouchability to his demeanor.  Here was a man who had killed millions, and the aura of awe and respect kept Trunks at a safe distance.

Trunks must have revealed this somehow, because something in Vegeta's face softened.  It wasn't so much a change in his expression as something that Trunks couldn't see, but was able to sense.  The warrior stepped forward, uncrossing his arms, and he inclined his head in a short bow, acknowledging his son's respect.

  


"You fought well, boy," Vegeta rested a hand on Trunks' shoulder, and the boy's breath caught in his throat.  "You've earned your place among the legendary."

Trunks' eyes widened, and before he could stop himself, he wrapped his arms around Vegeta's waist and embraced him.  "They said you died crying," Trunks blurted out, his words thick with repressed tears.  "And I believed them for a minute . . . and then I felt so bad for that, and I got angry, and I just wanted to kill them . . . but I couldn't . . ." the rest of his sentence dissolved with his composure.

Vegeta said nothing, and he didn't return Trunks' embrace.  But he did not push him away, and that was enough.

Eventually, Kioku pulled back, looking at Dad.  His father was regarding him seriously, with such scrutiny that Kioku started to squirm.  "What?" he exploded at last, unable to take it any longer.  "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," Dad laughed reassuringly, holding Kioku out at arms' length and studying him again.  "It's just that, even though you're a carbon copy of Piccolo, you remind me of Mom.  Your expressions are a lot like hers."

Kioku jerked as though stung by an insect.  "Hey, speaking of Piccolo, where is he?" at the mention of his parent, Kioku's heart began palpitating so rapidly that he thought his chest might explode.  He was filled with anticipation and not a little fear, for even though he shared his sire's memories, Kioku still didn't feel like he knew Piccolo.

Dad's forehead wrinkled in between his eyebrows.  "Well, he stayed back at the checkout station," he explained, and Kioku's heart felt like it plummeted down to his stomach.  Didn't Father want to see him?  "He's a little nervous about meeting you, son — or at least, as close to nervous as Piccolo can get.  It's hard to come face-to-face with someone who knows you as well as you do."

"I never thought of that," Kioku muttered, tilting his head to one side as he frowned sideways at his father.  The disappointment vanished as quickly as it had come, as was the case with young boys.  "Nobody's ever been able to see inside my head like that.  It would be like being faced with a living mirror, huh?"

Dad blinked a few times, then his face lit up in a gigantic grin that went all the way up to his eyes.  "Yeah, that works.  You're pretty smart for a little guy, you know that?" he rubbed a hand across Kioku's head, smiling proudly.

Just then, the group of ogres ran up to them, breathing heavily, their white T-shirts soaked with perspiration.  Kioku wrinkled his nose at the less-than-pleasant smell.  "_Th_top . . . right . . . there . . ." the leader puffed, sinking to his knees, still brandishing his clipboard authoritatively.  "The_th_e children . . . have broken —"

"Shut up, you fool," Vegeta sneered, and Trunks straightened up importantly, assuming what was supposed to be taken as a princely air, and Kioku couldn't resist laughing a little.  "Do you who you're speaking to?"

Before Vegeta could launch into a Saiyajin-royalty speech, the type of which Trunks was quite fond, Dad stepped in.  "Yeah, I know they cut line and stuff, but Enma-Dao wanted to see them anyway.  So, sorry for causing trouble, but you can get back to work now."

Light glinted off the ogre's glasses for a second, somehow giving an air of disdain.  "Oh, I _th_ee, th_pe_th_ial privilege_th.  Well, don't let me _th_tand in the way of a hero.  Have a good day, _th_ir_th_."

Motioning for his lackeys to come with him, the ogre made a quick obeisance and left.  Kioku's sharp ears up his disgruntled muttering.  "Ooh, who do they think they are, Mi_th_ter_th_ High and Mighty . . . 'Ooh, look at u_th_, we died trying to _th_ave our _th_illy worthle_th_ little planet . . . everybody bow to u_th_ . . . we can bend all the rule_th_ and nobody can _th_top u_th_ . . . look at u_th_, look at u_th_' . . ."

Kioku stifled a chuckle, and he looked back at his father, whose eyes twinkled with amusement.  "Well, why don't see Enma-Dao, eh, guys?" Dad suggested, shifting Kioku to his shoulders. 

  


"Yes, let's get this over with," Vegeta grunted, clasping Dad's shoulder.  "Hold onto me, boy," he instructed, and Trunks latched onto his arm eagerly.

"Here we go!"

Kioku's stomach lurched as his surroundings blurred, and his brain seemed to swim clumsily in his head like a dying fish. The sensation was over almost immediately, before it had the chance to fully register, and the shimmering around him vanished.

"Whoa," he breathed, glancing around the room he was now in.   The first thing that he noticed was its immense size, which dwarfed the small Namekusejin until he felt positively insignificant.  It was a humbling experience when even the footstools were twice as tall as he was.  Dozens of ogre-creatures scrambled frantically around the room like ants, carrying books, file folders, and stacks of papers.  A larger ogre bellowed orders through a megaphone to the spirits outside.  But it was the giant desk in the middle of the room that caught Kioku's full attention — that, and the person sitting behind it.

Kioku had never seen anyone so . . . well . . . _huge_ before.  The man, heavyset and bearded, with a pair of large horns on his head, had to be Enma-Dao, whoever he was.  He peered at Kioku with black, beady eyes, and the result was that the Namekusejin felt even more intimidated.  That was probably the intention, he thought belatedly.

"So these are the children in question?" boomed the Lord of the Dead, his deep, stentorian voice making them jump.

"Yes, sir," Dad nodded, taking Kioku off his shoulders and setting him down on the floor.  Kioku resisted the childish urge to cling to his father's pant legs, and he mustered up enough courage to stand up straight, chin held high.  He had faced off against the _jinzouningen_, for crying out loud — why start chickening out now?

"Humph," Enma-Dao grunted, leafing through a book the size of Kioku himself.  "Briefs Trunks and Son Kioku . . . an interesting case, you two.  The offspring of Earth's strongest warriors, and following in your father's footsteps, from what I can judge.  A very interesting case, indeed."

Though his words sounded encouraging, something tickled Kioku's warning sense.  The Namekusejin shifted his weight from foot to foot uncertainly, aware that Enma-Dao's frowning gaze was pointed at him.  " . . . But . . . ?" Kioku supplied helpfully, knowing the proverbial other shoe had to drop sometime.

"But," came the inevitable addition, "We have a problem," Enma-Dao steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the oak desk, and furrowed his thick eyebrows.  "We're not sure where to send you."

Trunks sucked in his breath sharply, and a panicked look came over his features, eyes widening comically.  "Hey, if this is about all the pranks an' stuff I pull, I swear I'll never do any again!"

"No."

"Uh . . . the time I put a scorpion down Kiku's shirt?"

"No!"

"All the times I made fun of Kiku 'cause he's green?"

"NO!" Enma-Dao roared, pounding the desktop with one massive fist, and making the floor shake.  Kioku grabbed onto his father instinctively to keep his balance.  "Silence, child!  I will tell you, if you would kindly _shut up_!"

Trunks jerked back in fright initially, then glanced at his father and seemed to gain some bravado.  "Geez, you don't have to be _mean_ about it," he muttered peevishly.  "I was just _askin_'."

  


Kioku snickered, but stopped abruptly when Enma-Dao's ears twitched in warning — he wasn't sure why that gesture startled him so, but it had the effect of one of his mother's death glares.  Vegeta cuffed his son on the back of the head.  "Shut up, boy, and listen," despite the blow and the rebuke, Trunks closed his mouth obediently, and his eyes shone with adoration as he gazed at his father.  Kioku smiled a little and leaned backwards, resting his head against Dad's leg.  Dad squeezed his shoulder.

A brief thought flickered through Kioku's mind; what if their fathers hadn't died?  What if the _jinzouningen_ had never come, and the two families had been allowed to live in peace?  Kioku frowned.  Trunks would be a lot more sarcastic, probably, and might not get along with Kioku as well — not if he acted like his father.  And Kioku wouldn't have to worry about upsetting his mother every time he said something that sounded like Dad . . .

_Quit that_, a voice inside him chided sternly, and it sounded like Father's, and Kioku winced without thinking.  He quickly reined in the what-if's, instead concentrating on the here and now.  There would be plenty of time to reflect on life after Enma-Dao had made his decision . . .

He just hoped he could stay with his father.

"The two of you have a very special case," Enma-Dao explained.  "Normally, children your ages are sent immediately to heaven.  Children who are murdered either are sent to heaven also, or are allowed to return to their planet in the form of another child.  _However_, your cases are unique.  In addition to being children, you are also warriors.  Fighters who perish trying to save their planets are given special consideration.  They are allowed to keep their physical bodies, and are permitted to seek training with other warriors in their quadrant."

"Wow," Kioku's brow ridges rose to tickle his antennae as he listened to the list of privileges.  "That's a lot of stuff."

"Yes," Enma-Dao agreed.  "Given records of your lives, you two have done nothing to make you unworthy of these honours.  Apart from a few harmless pranks, you have dedicated your lives to freeing your world, and helping those whom you love.  You more than deserve any special treatment we can offer you."

Kioku felt his cheeks grow hot, and he squirmed under the praise.  Though he had lived many years in the desert, he hadn't much time — or desire, really — to contemplate his life and the choices he'd made.  He had never thought of anything he'd done as heroic . . . he had a mother to protect and a father to avenge, that's all; nothing that anyone could make a movie or a book from.

It wasn't heroics.  It was revenge — and though Kioku was aware of the term "righteous anger" and the justification for it, the idea still bothered him.  Despite any excuses Trunks made whenever Kioku brought up the subject — about the _jinzouningen_ deserving all the hate they could get, and they would get what was coming to them — that didn't add up in Kioku's mind.

Before he had died, all Kioku's thoughts had been consumed by rage and the insatiable urge to kill everything.  Now, in hindsight, Kioku felt a shudder of revulsion run through him — how could he have thoughts like that?  So much hatred!  The one emotion Mom had told him to never, ever allow himself to feel, because submitting to hatred was the worst form of suicide that anyone could commit.  

The chain of reasoning slammed into him like one of Trunks' flying tackles, and Kioku whimpered in sudden fright.  What if Enma-Dao counted Kioku's thoughts against his actions, and they cancelled each other out?  What if his "heroic actions" were annulled by his impure motives?  Could he be sent to hell for that?  He was too young, wasn't he? — but then, most children didn't think thoughts of pure murder, either . . .

Unconsciously, Kioku backed up into Dad's leg, half-turning so he could bury his face in his father's orange pant leg, twisting his fists in the baggy material.  Dad looked down at him curiously, tweaking Kioku's ear in a silent request to know what was the matter, but Kioku didn't know how to form the correct words.

  


Enma-Dao looked at him sharply, and subconsciously, Kioku drew his bottom lip between his teeth.  "Rest easy, child," the giant assured him, his fearful gaze lessening a fraction.  "Even though your thoughts were filled with hate, what you tried to do was still in defense of your family and your planet.  The guilt you harbour for your feelings is proof that it was not in your nature.  Your fate will not be decided by the anger you felt."

The small Namekusejin breathed a sigh of relief, though the guilt for his hate had still not abated, and his father's hand tightened on his shoulder — though Kioku could tell his father was still confused.  A few seconds later, Kioku blinked.  "Hey, how did you know what I was thinking?"

"Namekusejin are not the only telepaths in the galaxy," the Lord of the Dead declared pompously.  "But never mind.  The question is, which honour do we bestow upon you?  Do we send you to heaven, to spend eternity as children, or to train with the other warriors?  And whose decision is it?  Yours?  Your parents'?  Mine?"

Trunks glanced at Kioku, pale eyebrows raised challengingly, and both boys shrugged, neither one knowing how they were expected to respond.  No one said anything for a few seconds, the warriors looking at one another, and Enma-Dao staring commandingly at all of them.  Suddenly, a low voice sounded from a door to the side.

"Let them go back home."

Everyone turned to gape at the tall, imposing figure who stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest.  One slanted eye was open, almost daring Enma-Dao without having to say anything.  Kioku's chest hitched as his heart began pounding at triple the normal rate, and he couldn't help but gawk at what appeared to be an older version of himself.  "F-Father?" he stammered softly.  The other Namekusejin's gaze flicked briefly in his direction, though without acknowledgment, before returning to Enma-Dao.

"Send them back home?!" Enma-Dao roared, his thick eyebrows skyrocketing.  "That is absolutely preposterous!  No matter how many special considerations can be made, I can't send them back just like that!  Next thing, you'll be saying I should bring back all the children killed by the _jinzouningen_."

"No, I won't.  That would make no sense.  The others have no families, and would die of starvation even if they _weren't_ murdered by the _jinzouningen_ again.  But these boys" — Father pointed at them, though he never took his eyes off his antagonist — "both have mothers who need them.  I don't know about the Briefs boy, but my son's mother, though strong, can't last long by herself.  She's seen far too much death in her family to be able to take any more.  She needs the child back.  I can only assume that Trunks' mother is the same."

"But —"

"_More importantly_," Father pressed on, regardless of his superior's protest.  By Dad's quick intake of breath, Kioku guessed this wasn't accepted protocol.  "These children can make a difference.  Where Vegeta, Son, and I failed, our sons won't.  Not when they have received proper training.  There is potential within them that none of us can understand."

Enma-Dao folded his arms, huffing indignantly.  "These boys, with more power than you? Pre —" he started to say 'preposterous', realized he'd already said it, and snorted with annoyance.  "Ridiculous!"

Dad spoke up quietly, his voice both serious and curious at once.  "How do you know, Piccolo?"

Father locked gazes with Kioku for the first time, and the child shivered.  He'd never met anyone with a more intense stare, and it unnerved him — it was such a piercing look, like he could see inside people.  Father spoke, but the voice that came from his mouth was not his own; it was much older, cracked and wavering, with thousands of years of experience behind it.

"I was the Guardian of Earth," the voice said, finally registering to Kioku as Kami-sama.  "Like Guru of my home planet, I am able to sense untapped potential within certain individuals.  Unlike Guru, I cannot bring it to the surface, but I can see it, nonetheless.  I have told Piccolo of the power these two possess, if they train hard — and if they have the chance to return to the Earth."

  


Kioku barely heard the former guardian's words, he was so fascinated by what was happening.  Father was talking, but Kami-sama was the one speaking!  Father, noticing Kioku's bugeyed stare, suddenly twitched, and a scowl slammed down over his features.  "Old man, I _hate_ it when you do that!" he snarled, curling his lip so his fangs glinted in the light.  "This is _my_ body, so quit trying to take it over!" 

While Dad guffawed heartily and the others struggled to keep their composure, Kioku watched Enma-Dao carefully.  The giant had taken a large volume from inside his desk, and was turning the pages slowly, peering intently at what was written there.  As Kioku stared, the Lord of the Dead shook his head and glanced up, an unreadable expression colouring his ruddy face.

"Give me time to think," Enma-Dao declared, "Then I will make my decision.  Go!  Leave me in peace.  You may return in three hours."

"Thanks, Enma-Dao," Dad called brightly, picking Kioku up again.  "We'll go see how the others are doing while you decide."

Once again, Dad placed his index fingers to his forehead, and the room disappeared.  This time, however, Father came with them, his face drawn into a thoughtful glare.  Their surroundings coalesced into a large field, with long, waving grasses and flowers.  After years in the desert, Kioku's jaw dropped at the sight of so much vegetation.  On the ground, Trunks was likewise gaping at the surroundings.  Not too far off, Kioku saw a group of fighters sparring.  He matched their faces to the memory of their corpses, and was tentatively able to identify them.

"Hey!" Dad yelled, dropping Kioku and waving his arms, and the others looked up.  Some of them waved back, and they flew toward them.

Small flutters of nervousness began churning in Kioku's stomach as five men landed in front of him.  He didn't know what the others would think of him, since had died in his very first battle ever fought.  Would they scorn him for pretending to be something he wasn't?

"Hey, wow!  You're _huge_!" one of the shorter fighters exclaimed, grinning broadly.  Indeed, Kioku was the same height as he.  Recognizing him was difficult without his skull caved in and face twisted in agony, especially with the tousled map of black hair now on his head, but Kioku was saved any embarrassment when he introduced himself.  "I'm Kuririn.  Your Dad and I have known each other since we were kids.  I know we don't remember me, but I sure remember you.  You were such a little squirt!"

Suddenly shy, though no longer apprehensive, Kioku smiled a little.  "Pleased to meet you," he bowed in greeting, and Kuririn did likewise.  The young man grinned again, wrapping Kioku in an impulsive bear hug, tears springing to his black eyes as he commented how much Kioku had changed.  The boy just laughed.

The rest of Dad's friends were introduced, and soon after, Trunks and Kioku joined them in a disorganized sparring match that resembled roughhousing more than anything else.  Kioku tumbled through the tall grass, laughing and shouting, smelling the sweetness of the flowers and the freshness of the air, revelling in the chance to play without having to worry about anything else.  He yelped, throwing himself to the ground in a vain attempt to escape Yamucha's headlock.

He was enjoying himself immensely until he over heard Dad talking to Vegeta and Father.  "It's good to see them playing," Dad said quietly.  He was keeping his voice low, but obviously not realizing Kioku could hear him.  "As long as we keep them busy, they shouldn't get upset about dying."

"Better to let them get upset now than for it to hit them harder later," Father cocked his head to one side.

"But they're just kids, Piccolo!"

Father clucked his tongue like he was speaking to a toddler.  "Son, those two stopped being kids the day we died.  Don't be ridiculous."

  


"Well, that's your opinion," Dad said almost snappishly, his voice hardening in a way that Kioku didn't remember ever hearing before.  "I think you're making some bad choices.  Your idea about sending them back was a good one, but I don't think Enma-Dao will go for it.  I know you meant well, but I think you should have waited until the kids couldn't hear you.  I don't want them to hope falsely."

"Even false hope is no better than no hope at all," Father replied, giving Dad a look that was both scolding and slightly amused.  "You've told me that enough times."

"But if Enma-Dao doesn't agree —"

"Then there's nothing we can do," Father said firmly, and though he didn't know why, Kioku got the sudden feeling that his parent was speaking to him as well.  "But the boys deserve to know of every chance they might have.  They can handle it — they've already been forced to grow up twice as quickly as most people here.  And I'm sure they're not hoping as much as you think they are.  They're old enough now that they understand nothing is for certain.  They're aware Enma-Dao might not agree."

Father looked down at Kioku purposefully then, silently chiding him for eavesdropping but also letting him know he didn't really care, and the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly.  "Hey, kid, come here," he called, flying away from Dad and Vegeta.

Battling the horde of butterflies that mysteriously appeared in his stomach while simultaneously cursing himself for being such a baby, Kioku followed his parent, a sense of awe pervading him.  His father had sacrificed his whole being to save Gohan — and not just once, twice!  The second time, Piccolo had given birth to Kioku so that Gohan would always have a companion.

Kioku hadn't lived up to that wish . . . as an infant, he had caused Gohan pain, had increased his brother's guilt for the deaths of the Z-_senshi_ by causing his absence from the battle . . . later, he had abandoned him by running away, and eventually, had gotten himself killed, leaving Gohan alone.  The child's lip trembled, but he clamped down with his fangs.

Kioku had failed . . . he had failed Gohan, he had failed Father, he had failed his entire planet . . .

"Stop snivelling.  You haven't failed anyone," Father grunted, coming to a halt at last.  "You're just a child, nobody expects you to be perfect."

"What?" Kioku jumped in shock, not having realized his parent's mind would be attuned to his, then feeling stupid almost immediately.  ". . . oh.  Uh, thank you.  I suppose."

Father folded his arms and stared down at him, his gaze running over Kioku with such a penetrating stare that the boy felt like sinking into the grass and disappearing.  "I didn't ask you over here to socialize or reminisce," he began sternly.  "You have most of my memories, so there is no need for that, and I don't indulge in that nonsense anyway.  No, there is something you need to know."

Kioku nodded solemnly, oddly reassured by Father's brusqueness.  It was something he could take at face value, which was all too rare lately.  "What is that?"

"You are the only remaining Namekusejin on Earth, if you are allowed to return," Father frowned, "And at the moment, you are the most effective warrior.  Trunks may have more raw power, but you have a better head on your shoulders.  This gives you a responsibility."

"Responsibility?"

"Yes.  You cannot continue fighting only for your mother.  The Earth has been without a Guardian for too long, and as my son, the duty falls to you.  When you were a child, you were permitted to pass it up — but you are a child no longer."

  


As Father spoke, Kioku shivered — a cold chill ran down his spine, feeling like someone had dumped a glass of ice cubes down the back of his shirt.  'A child no longer'?  What did Father mean by that?  Trunks was a year older than he was, and _he_ was definitely a kid!  Why was Kioku supposed to be grown up all of the sudden?

"Power breeds responsibility," Father intoned, "And you have more power than anyone left.  Gohan, at your age, was weaker than you — yet, he was forced to become a man by the age of five.  He has not had a childhood — he has witnessed death and betrayal by the time he was four.

"Yet, his premature rise to adulthood was tempered partly by circumstance, and partly by choice.  While you have no other option but to accept."

Kioku's brows knit together in confusion and fear.  What Father was telling him was frightening, because it was uncharted territory.  An adult?  He could barely even handle being a kid — those duties were difficult enough to tackle!  "Why do I have to be an adult, Father?  I don't think I could take on the responsibility adequately!"

The expression that darkened Father's face was one that Kioku couldn't distinguish.  It was an odd combination of pride, anxiety, and a sort of dreaded foreboding.  The older Namekusejin's thoughtful scowl pulled deeper, but his eyes didn't look like pieces of flint anymore — they seemed to soften somehow.  

"The transformation has already begun.  Have you noticed your vocabulary has increased since your death?  Namekusejin are an adaptable species, and your mind is already preparing for your new position."

Kioku scratched his head behind his antennae, still not understanding.  His father's mind was closed off to him, his thoughts hidden where Kioku couldn't read them.  "Father . . . are you saying my mind is growing up before I do?"

Father nodded, his frown lightening.  "Somewhat.  But no matter how much your body adapts, you cannot become a Guardian on your own.  Having Kami's and my memories will help, but it wouldn't be enough.  To defeat the _jinzouningen_, and to protect your planet from further threats, you need our entire entities."

Comprehension began crawling through Kioku's brain like a beetle on the grass, nipping him every so often, but not with enough force to make a connection.  Kioku blinked a few times, desperately attempting to understand why his father was looking at him with such grave solemnity.  It was like Father knew he had to do something, but wished he didn't have to.

"I don't . . . understand."

Father's mouth tightened, and he looked away, closing his eyes.  His lips twitched, moving silently, and Kioku guessed he and Kami were arguing again.  Eventually, Father nodded sharply, and turned back to him.  His eyes seemed haunted, premonitory.  

"The two of us . . . must fuse."

From the low, growly tone of Father's voice, Kioku guessed he was supposed to be awed and impressed — but unfortunately for Father's dramatic buildup, Kioku had no idea what fusion was.  He didn't feel particularly inclined to dig through his memory to find it, either.  "Um," he laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head like his father always did.  "What does that mean?"

A few heartbeats passed as Father's eyes widened, then the great warrior's legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees in shock and disbelief.

******

  


"Where'd Kiku go, anyway?" Trunks piped up curiously, flopping back in the high grass with his arms outstretched, chest heaving.  It had been a long time since he had play-wrestled with anyone, and while his father didn't join in, knowing he was there was good enough.

"Good question," Kuririn glanced over at Goku, who had entered the confusion a few minutes ago.  The Saiyajin propped himself on one elbow, looking at Trunks.

"He and Piccolo went off to talk a little while ago," Goku explained, the lines on his face tightening around his mouth and eyes.  "I'm not sure what they're talking about, but knowing Piccolo, it'll be something important.  He's not one for idle conversation."

"Hmm," Trunks mused thoughtfully.  He didn't know what the word "musing" meant, but he'd heard it used before and thought it sounded impressive.  It sounded like the kind of thing that grownups would do, and Trunks had started "musing" on a regular basis.  He figured it was a more adult version of thinking.

"D you think Piccolo-san was right, Goku-san?" Trunks asked, lacing his fingers behind his head, eyes sparkling with curiosity.  "D'you think we could go back home, to Mom, and ChiChi-san, and Gohan-san?"

Nobody answered, and the pause made the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.  Trunks frowned, trying to ignore the sudden, irrational fear that sprang up in his stomach, twisting his intestines into a knot.  He hoped he would still be able to eat.  "Can't we go back?  Was Piccolo-san wrong?"

Yamucha reached over Kuririn to tousle Trunks' hair, and the boy winced.  He always hated that gesture — it was so ostentatiously patronizing that it annoyed him.  After all he tried to do, how grown up he strove to be, one "friendly" action was all it took to reduce Trunks to a little kid again.

"Piccolo gets some weird ideas sometimes," Yamucha shrugged a little, a sheepish and sympathetic grin on his face that sparked something long-dead in Trunks' memory.  "Honestly, kiddo', I don't think Enma-Dao will let you go.  I think you'll get stuck with us."

_At least he gave me an honest answer,_ Trunks thought.  He'd been dreading the typical watered-down-for-kids answer that adults usually gave.

Goku glowered at Yamucha, but stopped when Trunks lifted an eyebrow.  The older man blew out his breath in a long sigh, his forehead wrinkling as he battled something inside his mind.  Nobody knows anything for sure, Trunks.  Don't write off any chances just yet."

"Don't baby me," Trunks muttered, sitting up abruptly and crossing his arms.  "I'm not that little, Goku-san, I can handle stuff.  You don't have to worry about upsetting me."

"I'm not babying you," Goku-san argued, though Trunks stony glare never faltered.  "Just because you've fought and died doesn't mean you're an adult."

"Oh, poo on that!" Trunks expostulated, rather rudely, he knew, but too exasperated to care.

Tenshinhan let out a dry chuckle, peering at Trunks through his three eyes (which Trunks thought was awesome — how  did someone get one of those?).  "I've never heard an adult use the expression 'poo on that', little one," he admonished him laughingly.  "I'll have to agree with Goku on that one."

Trunks snorted indignantly, with the feeling that the entire galaxy was against him — though why this was happening, Trunks couldn't imagine.  "Well maybe, but I still wanna' be told stuff.  I'm old enough to know if I'm gonna' stay dead forever or not."

"Don't be too eager to grow up, boy," Vegeta spoke up, addressing Trunks directly for the first time since the playful wrestling match began.  "For once you lose your childhood, you'll discover it's the one thing you wish you never gave up."

  


"Who's stupid enough to think that?" Trunks scoffed, not noticing the knowing looks that passed between the adults.  "Being a kid sucks!  I can't wait until I'm a grownup, and people quit hiding stuff from me."

Vegeta smirked, but Trunks pointedly ignored him.

******

"No!  I'm just a kid!" Kioku backed rapidly away from Father, shaking his head vehemently as if that would prove his point further home.  "If I fuse with you, I'll be grown up no matter how old I am.  I'm not _ready_ for that kind of responsibility!"

Father said nothing.  The look on his face was best described as empty; it held no sympathy, but no anger or exasperation, either.  He had explained fusion to Kioku after a few seconds of staring, open-mouthed, at him for his lack of knowledge on the subject.  For Kioku, the prospect of sharing another person's _complete_ personality inside him (four other people, actually) was frightening.  What was left of Kioku's wits had scattered to the far end of the galaxy.

While Kioku continued to splutter and protest, all the while attempting to quell the pit of fear churning in the bottom of his stomach, Father still did not speak.  He merely stood and looked off into the distance, as though ignoring Kioku's fits completely, waiting patiently for him to finish.  At last, chest heaving and tears of frustration streaming down his face, Kioku was too exhausted to object anymore.

"Well . . ." he whispered finally, his breath shuddering as he struggled for composure.  "I suppose there's no way out of it.  But —"  Kioku looked at Father imploringly, chewing his lip to keep it from trembling, and he tugged on his parent's pant leg no matter how childish the action.  "If I have to stay dead, can we not fuse?"

Father nodded once, his gaze still focussed on something Kioku couldn't see.  "That will be fine."

Kioku fell silent, mulling over his choices in his mind, and thought wasn't a pleasant one.  "Not the best of options, are they?" he mused aloud.  "On one hand, I can stay dead forever, but remain a kid.  On the other, I can return to life, but sacrifice my childhood at the same time."

"I'm sorry."

The words, coming in a low growl from Father's mouth, startled Kioku so much that his jaw dropped several inches.  "Wh-what?" he stammered.  He had no memories of his parent apologizing to _any_one.  "Did you just . . ."

Father swung around and locked stares with him, brow ridges coming down to narrow his eyes.  Kioku shrank back, slapping himself inwardly.  "Never mind," the boy said quickly, "I heard you."

"Good."

A pause followed, lengthy and, to Kioku, uncomfortable.  He was used to chattering with Trunks, whether it be while they sparred, stretched, ate (or, in Kioku's case, drank), or when they couldn't sleep at night . . . he didn't like silence.  He'd had too much of that before he left home — he and Trunks had talked to each other, of course, but their mothers rarely conversed.  Their household had been a silent one, for the most part, and even five years since his departure, Kioku still didn't like it.

Silence was synonymous with tears — and death.

Father shook himself then, and Kioku winced, not intending his thoughts to be so loud.  "Sorry," he apologized, biting his lip, but Father waved the concession off.

"That's all right.  We might as well go back to Son and the others before the grinning idiot comes after us."

  


Kioku had to laugh at the expression used to describe his adoptive father — insulting though it was, it was still incredibly accurate.

******

For the first time in years, Kioku forgot about anything and everything, able to relax and enjoy the moment.  His death, his rage, abandoning his family . . . all of it was temporarily tossed aside as he indulged himself in a wave of pure happiness.  It was a strange emotion to him, but welcome nonetheless.

He lay with Dad in the waving grass, snuggled next to him like he was an infant again, his head lying on his father's rock-hard chest.  Dad's arm was around him, solid and powerful, yet his touch was gentle as he massaged Kioku's head lightly.  Father sat in lotus position nearby, close enough that Kioku's outstretched hand could rest on his arm.  Kioku didn't remember being this peaceful, this insanely _happy_ in all his existence.

Not far off, Trunks slept soundly next to Vegeta, who had deigned to sit on the ground, and allowed his son to lean his head against his side.  Every so often, most likely when he thought no one was watching, Vegeta would lift a hand and touch Trunks' hair lightly, almost wonderingly, as he stared at his son's peaceful face.  It was like he couldn't believe the boy lying next to him was his.

Kioku smiled softly.

Out of nowhere, Father straightened, uncrossing his arms and letting his arms drop to his sides.  "It's time," he intoned solemnly.

Vegeta nudged Trunks, and Kioku and Dad sat up.  "Well, this is it," Dad muttered quietly, his voice uncharacteristically solemn, and he squeezed Kioku's shoulders.

"Yeah," the Namekusejin murmured in reply.  He caught Trunks' blue-eyed gaze, and reached over to clasp his friend's hand in his.  "Whatever happens is gonna' happen, so don't get sad, okay?"

Trunks nodded firmly, and he gripped Kioku's hand.  "Okay.  Let's go."

******

Well? Whaddaya' think? Let me know, please - this chapter was very difficult, though I'm not sure why. Heck knows, with me! 


	8. The Serpent Road

Disclaimer: Hi, everyone, my name's Leia. *everyone nods and smiles* Hi, Leia. *Leia smiles nervously* And . . . *sniffles* . . . I . . . I don't . . . *sobs* . . . I DON'T OWN DB/Z/GT!!!! *everyone nods sympathetically* We understand. *group leader grins brightly* See? That's the first step . . . admitting your problem. Next session, we'll work on how to deal with it. 

 A/N: It's been a long, dry spell for Kioku fans . . . but I wanted to make this chapter long to make up for the gap, and it just wasn't happening. So, it's six pages - longer than the chapters that most people give out, but shorter for me. To anyone that complains; bite me. Not really, but . . . if I'd tried to make it longer, then it probably would have dragged on and been boring. 

 Blame Bucky anyway. She said I should try to shorten my chapters, to put less pressure on myself and reduce update gaps. Hopefully it works and there will be more frequent updates, okay? *sighs* No promises, but I will try. 

Well, chapter eight . . . finally. 

Deeper Than Colour — The Kioku Story

**Chapter Eight: The ****Serpent Road**

"Walking.  Wonderful.  Whenever we hafta' train, we always gotta' walk," Briefs Trunks groused loudly, scuffing the toes of his boots against the impenetrable grey stone of The Serpent Road.  The lavender-haired demi-Saiyajin had been complaining ever since he and Kioku left Enma Dai-Ou's audience chamber.

"And _you_ always have to whine," Son Kioku shot back.  Under normal circumstances he thought Trunks' constant bellyaching was almost funny, but at the moment, Kioku was too busy mulling over recent events to find humour in the continual torrent of laments.

Dad, Father, Vegeta-san, and the other Z-_senshi_ had used Dad's _Shunkanidou_ technique to get to a place where someone named "Kaio-sama" lived.  They hadn't taken Kioku and Trunks with them, because Dad said that the journey to the Lord of the World's planet was an essential part of the training — Kioku didn't mind, but Trunks hadn't quit groaning the whole time.

Kioku scowled, thinking back to the second audience with Enma Dai-Ou . . . adults certainly were indecisive!  The giant still hadn't decided whether or not to allow the boys to return to Earth . . . he'd stated he needed more time to think if it would be worth bending the rules.

_"Unfortunately, I have not managed to reach a decision," Enma Dai-Ou reported gravely, rustling some papers on his desk and folding his hands.  He gazed at them solemnly.  "You must admit, there is a considerable amount of favouritism in your case.  Though I contacted the Namekusejin and they are willing to wish you boys back, some were confused as to why you two were chosen.  Why, for example, other fighters were not given such an honour."_

_Father growled impatiently and made a slicing motion with his hand, disregarding the importance. "We've been through this —" he interrupted._

_"If you would kindly _wait_," Enma Dai-Ou's loud voice overrode even Father's protests, and Kioku mentally tallied up the points in their verbal battle.  Father was still winning, but not by much.  "I was getting to that.  I told the Namekusejin of your proposal, and they agreed to a trial run.  In short, they want to make sure you will become as powerful as Piccolo predicts you will be."_

_Kioku__ frowned.  "What?"_

_"You are to train for a year — or two — or three — or however long it takes for you to reach this supposed power level," Enma Dai-Ou raised a thick eyebrow, as if chastising Piccolo for assuming such an outrageous thing as children defeating the _jinzouningen_. "When you reach this plateau, you will be allowed to return.  If you do not, you must remain here in the Other World, and may spend your eternity training with your fellow warriors."_

_Heavy silence reigned as those in the room considered the decision.  Father scowled like he wasn't satisfied but was temporarily mollified, and Dad looked thrilled that Kioku would be able to stay with him some more.  Vegeta, on the other hand, uncrossed his arms, glanced at Trunks, and stalked up to the desk._

_"What about their minds?" the Saiyajin snapped.  Kioku blinked, confused, and stared up at Dad.  He shrugged._

_Enma__ Dai-Ou seemed unimpressed as he plopped his chin in his palm.  He looked annoyed at having to stave off someone else's arguments, having dealt with numerous ones from the grumpy Namekusejin across the room.  "What are you talking about?"_

_  
_

_"When warriors die, their bodies do not age," Vegeta explained, probably for the children's benefits, for the others were aware of this.  "That is fine for us, but what about the boys?  If it takes years for them to reach their new strength, they will have adult minds trapped in children's bodies.  I do not wish my son, the heir to the Saiyajin throne, to endure such a thing."_

_All eyes were either on Kioku and Trunks, or Enma Dai-Ou.  Father smirked a little, probably glad Vegeta had found something to fight over with Enma Dai-Ou, and Dad straightened up, looking suddenly afraid.  At last, the giant spoke.  "All right.  I will remove the body preservation from these two boys until they reach adulthood — if it does indeed take so long."_

_"Good," Vegeta nodded once, with the air of a ruler who has been granted a favour by a neighbouring (but less powerful) country.  He returned to Trunks' side, where his son stared at him with unabashed adoration — which was neither acknowledged nor rebuffed._

_"Well, that's that," Dad announced brightly, the worry gone from his features and tone of voice.  He had the ability to switch moods awfully quickly, Kioku noticed.  "We'll meet you at Kaio-sama's."_

_"'Meet us'?" Trunks demanded loudly, "Whaddaya' mean, _meet_ us?  Aren't you gonna' do that funky instant whatchamacallit?"_

_Dad laughed, his dark eyes sparkling.  "_We_ are.  You aren't.  Part of the training is travelling on The __Serpent Road__."_

_Kioku__ raised his brow ridges curiously, wondering if they really had to walk on a big snake.  That didn't sound too appealing . . .  "Where is it?"_

_Enma__ Dai-Ou extended his arm and pointed to a side door with his large finger.  "There.  Begin your journey, boys, and may fate be on your side."_

"Look, buddy," Trunks grumbled, ending Kioku's flashback quite effectively.  "You don't like my complaining, then don't listen to it.  It ain't my fault your ears are too big."

"Yeah, yeah," Kioku replied half-heartedly, "Did you ever consider the fact that this walking might be good for us?  I mean, Dad wouldn't have told us to do this if it didn't have some benefit."

Trunks snarled at him and ran his hand through his hair, which was straggling loose from its makeshift ponytail.  He bugged out his eyes and raised the pitch of his voice in mocking parody of Kioku.  "'Daddy this, Daddy that' . . . 'My Daddy is awesome, nobody is better than him' . . ." he dropped the squeaky tone and crossed his arms, now imitating Vegeta, most likely.   "Man, Kiku, can't you ever talk about anything else?  Geez!  Your Dad can't be that great.  I mean, he _died_, didn't he?"

"Shut up!" Kioku clenched his fist until his claws cut into his palm, but he was far too mad to notice.  Trunks was his best friend, yes, but Kioku had recently decided that he had spent too much time with Vegeta than was healthy for the boy's personality.  "Your Father isn't any better, either!  At least _my_ Dad is nice and not an arrogant jerk like yours!"

"Hey!  At least I'm not adopted like you," Trunks pulled down his lower eyelid and stuck out his tongue.  "'Least my Dad is my _real_ Dad.  'Least I have a Mom!  'Least I didn't get puked out in a frickin' egg!"

Anger rose up inside Kioku as though he was being lowered inch by inch into a vat of molten lava and it was starting to make his blood boil.  "Trunks," he growled in warning, dropping the "-kun" honorific.  "Just stop it."

"And at least I didn't kill my Mom when I was born!" Trunks yelled his finale triumphantly, waving his arms around like a crazy demi-Saiyajin pinwheel.

"_What_?!"

  


"Didja' ever think that Piccolo mighta' lived if he hadn't used up all his energy to make _you_?" the boy's eyes were wide, and he smirked at what must have been a look of horror on Kioku's face.  "Didja' ever think that maybe it was your fault that Piccolo is dead?"

The miniature Namekusejin paused, any words of his next arguments evaporating in the face of Trunks' carefully-aimed barbs.  The logic, while all over the place in typical Trunks fashion, fit together into a bizarre puzzle of memories, feelings, and long-buried guilt, which gathered together to form the strange conclusion.

Kioku tried to talk, but all that left his throat was a strangled sob.  Maybe Trunks was right — maybe Father's death _had_ been partly Kioku's fault.  Maybe, if Father hadn't died, he could have helped the other _senshi_ and maybe they could have defeated the _jinzouningen_ . . .

Trunks' jeering expression fell, but Kioku barely noticed as he sank to his knees on the road, wrapping his arm around his legs and burying his face in his spandex sleeve.  "I can't believe," he hiccupped, his voice wavering like that of a little child's.  "You would be that _cruel_!"

Through watery eyes he saw Trunks' expression shift into panic.  "I'm sorry!" the boy blurted out, running to Kioku's side and gripping his shoulder.  "I wasn't thinking.  I didn't mean to!"

The green-skinned boy started to nod, ready to accept another one of Trunks' apologies — but after everything he had gone through, Kioku didn't want to deal with anything anymore.  He was tired of how Trunks could get so mean without any warning.  He was tired of the way Trunks would say sorry and expect everything to be okay, like the hurtful words weren't still digging into Kioku like red-hot knives.

He was _especially_ tired of how he accepted the apologies every time.

"No!" Kioku burst out suddenly, "I'm tired of you insulting me and apologizing and then forgetting about it.  Do you think that makes everything all _better_?"

Trunks was taken aback, his mouth hanging open in unabashed shock.  "Kiku, I said I was sorry —"

"You're always sorry!  Have you ever considered how much it still hurts even after you apologize?" Kioku narrowed his eyes, feeling more angry toward his best friend than ever before.  "This time you insulted my Dad, my Father, me . . . and I'm just supposed to sit here and let you?  You're quite immature, do you know that?"

"Oh, right, like everything's my fault," Trunks snapped.  "Listen to you, with your grownup talk and your perfect grammar and your bloody split personalities . . . you think you're so smart because you have Piccolo's memories and fighting skills inside your head.  And your Dad, who's the strongest fighter of all of them . . . you think I wanna' hear you yap about that all the time?  Geez!  You blab on and on about me being immature when all you do is talk about how amazing you and your family are.  Maybe I'm immature, maybe I don't know big words like you, and maybe my Dad isn't as strong as yours, but you're stuck-up and stupid!"

Kioku was ready to lunge at Trunks and start a brawl, but the back of his collar was suddenly caught in a heavy hand.  "What the hell?" Father shouted, appearing out of nowhere.  "What are you, a warrior or an infant?  There is no time for pointless arguing?"

Kioku had no idea how his father had reached him so quickly, when he saw Dad standing off to the side and remembered the _Shunkanidou_.  "I'm sorry?" he apologized meekly, his anger dissipating as he realized how childish his fight really was.

"'Sorry', eh?  'Do you think that makes everything all better'?" Father mocked, repeating Kioku's words.  "'You're quite immature, do you know that'?  Honestly!  Is there nothing better for you to do than carry grudges?  Live with your heritage, don't resent it."

The Namekusejin boy hung his head, feeling stupid.  It was as though all the growing up he'd been through had been stripped away, leaving him as young and inexperienced as a hatchling.  He was slightly mollified, however, when he saw Vegeta chewing Trunks out just as severely.

  


"— a disgrace!  Yes, you heard me.  You're going to have to train with that boy for _years_, yet you cannot manage even a few hours of walking?  I am ashamed that you cannot curb your petty temper for even that long!"

"I'm sorry, Father," Trunks looked just as chagrined as Kioku felt, and he flung an apologetic glance in his friend's direction.  "But I mean, dying is kinda' a big shock.  It just weirded out my brain, that's all."

"Excuses, excuses," Vegeta scolded, "Your problem is your pride, brat.  Learn to control it!"

Dad broke out into quiet laughter, though he tried to hide it, and both fathers rounded on him.  Kioku didn't get what was so amusing, but Dad smirked.  "This is funny, coming from you guys . . . grudges, accepting your heritage . . . controlling temper and pride . . . man!  Like you should talk!"

Both Father and Vegeta glared, but Kioku and Trunks merely caught each other's gazes and shrugged.  Kioku had a vague tickling in the back of his mind like he should know what Dad was talking about, but he didn't feel like chasing down the elusive wisp of knowledge.  Besides, the expressions on the other's faces were good enough on their own.

"Stuff it, Son," Father growled, at the same time as Vegeta muttered, "Shut up, Kakarotto," Dad just kept on chuckling.

"Well," Dad grinned at the two young warriors, then his wide smile disappeared behind a stern frown.  "They're right, though.  You two have way too much ahead of you to waste your time with silly fights like that.  Now, the rest of us are going back to Kaio-sama's planet, and I don't want to hear of you guys arguing again.  Got it?"

Something about seeing the jovial fighter wearing such a serious expression, made both Kioku and Trunks nod solemnly.  "Yes, sir," they both chanted in unison.

"Good," Dad's face brightened, and he slung his arms over the shoulders of his sullen friends.  "Let's go, guys!"

"Don't touch me like tha —" Vegeta began to snarl, but the _whoosh_ of air from the _Shunkanidou_ technique cut him off.  Kioku remained rooted in the spot, not quite sure what to make of the conversations he'd just witnessed.  Sometimes having two telepathic fathers could be a real nuisance . . .

"Um," Trunks chewed nervously on his lip, catching Kioku's attention.  "I know you don't believe me, but . . . I'm sorry.  Again."

He waited, and Kioku knew he was wondering what the reaction would be.  Kioku paused, then decided it was pointless bickering — after all, Trunks didn't mean any harm.  He was merely the biological product of two of the most verbally-abusive people in the universe, that's all.  It was his heritage, and nothing he could help.  The younger boy grinned, showing his fangs.  "That's okay."

Trunks' face lit up in a matching smile, and he stuck out his hand.  "Buds again?  Whaddaya say?"

"Sure," Kioku grabbed Trunks' hand and shook it soundly . . . then flipped his friend on his back and took off running down the road.  "I'm going to beat you there!" he called exultantly, sticking out his tongue and giggling over his shoulder.  Sometimes it was fun just to be a kid — especially with the potential threat of fusing with an adult hanging over him.

"NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO!" came Trunks' annoyed howl, "You cheeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaated!"

Kioku laughed hysterically and sped up, hearing Trunks' feet pounding on the ground behind him.  Nothing like some good, old-fashioned skullduggery to close the rift between them . . .

******

"How . . . much . . . longer?" Kioku panted, flopping down on his back and splaying out his arms and legs.  "So . . . tired . . ."

  


"Now who's complaining?" Trunks bantered, but he, too, collapsed in a heap on the unforgiving concrete.  "Man, this is a long road!"

Kioku nodded, silently apologizing for every time he'd teased Trunks about whining.  At the moment, all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep . . . which, come to think of it, wasn't such a bad idea.  "Well, good night," Kioku yawned widely and stretched.  He realized with a start that it was the first he had slept since before his death — and they had been travelling on the Serpent Road for days now.

Trunks grunted in agreement and closed his eyes, not even bothering to complain when Kioku moved close to him, pressing up against his side.  Sometimes Trunks got annoyed at him and told him to back off, but usually he respected Kioku's fear of sleeping alone.  Kioku still dreamt of Daimaou Piccolo's murder sprees if he didn't drift off next to the comforting presence of his best friend.

"Aww, they're so cute," Goku chuckled, appearing in the air with Vegeta and Piccolo.  They dropped in at least once a day to make sure the boys were all right, though they never let themselves be seen.  "Look at that . . ."

"I don't know why you bother to check on them," Piccolo grumbled, but he had to admit that it was nice seeing such a peaceful expression on Kioku's young face.  "They aren't going to fall off."

"And if they did, it would be their own faults," Vegeta added caustically.

Goku shrugged.  "It would be a pain if they did — we'd have to go through all the paper work, bla, bla, bla . . . or maybe even beat up a couple of the guards.  I know you like that, but I really don't care.  Besides . . ." he sighed, feeling a surge of protectiveness.  "It's been years since I've seen the kid.  I just can't get enough of watching him, you know?  Like that'll somehow make up for all the time I've missed."

"Soft-hearted fool," snorted the shortest of the three warriors, but his frown lightened fractionally.  "The brat looks like his mother."

"That he does," Piccolo's mouth twitched as he fought to keep a straight face.  "Lucky him."

Vegeta blustered away to himself, but Goku noticed that he kept quiet, not wanting to wake the sleepers.  At last, the Saiyajin sighed lustily and moved away, his hands falling on his friends' shoulders.  "We should get back.  They'll reach Kaio-sama's planet soon."

Vegeta crossed his arms and shook his head, looking at the end of the Serpent Road — which was less than fifteen feet away from the oblivious boys.  "Children," he spat the epithet like a piece of foul meat, but without his usual vehemence.  "Stupid little things . . ."

Goku laughed, then the air shimmered around them and they were gone.

Kioku whimpered in his sleep, frown lines creasing his smooth forehead, and he cried out.  His voice, however, came out deep and guttural, dripping with malice and sadistic pleasure.  "Kill . . ." he muttered, "I'll kill you all . . . send you all to hell . . . worthless creatures . . ."

His voice changed, becoming his own.  "No!" Kioku protested, "I won't — won't let you —"

"We are one," the demon's tone returned, "Kill with me . . . feel the pleasure . . . hear their screams . . . taste their blood . . ."

"NO!" — pitiful, half-sobbing — "No —"

  


Trunks shot up into a sitting position, woken by Kioku's thrashing.  "Kiku!  What's the matter?" his eyes widened as he beheld his friend's condition, and he grasped the Namekusejin by the shoulders.  This particular nightmare had become all-too-common in the past few years.  "Fight it, Ki!  Fight him!"

Kioku, still caught in the relentless grip of sleep, began to cry.  "Too strong — he's too strong —"

Panic seized hold of Trunks, for the dream had never held Kioku in its power for this long.  Usually, his friend only had to come to grips with his identity for a few seconds before waking, but it seemed as though the demon inside him was growing stronger.  "Wake up!" he pleaded, and in a moment of frenzy, Trunks flung his arms around Kioku's shuddering form and hugged him tightly.  "Don't let him take you!"

Kioku spasmed violently, nearly throwing Trunks off the road, then the dark voice screamed loudly and was gone.  The boy shivered, pressing himself even closer to Trunks, who breathed a long sigh of relief.  Kioku never remembered this sort of thing in the morning — the battle was one that existed in his subconscious only.  Trunks held onto him for a few more minutes, making sure he was all right, then released him.

"Geez, you like to scare me, don'tcha," Trunks muttered, feigning indignance, though he wasn't sure why.  No one was around to hear.  "I don't know what's the matter with your head, but . . . man . . . I'm glad it's not me!"

Kioku immediately curled up next to him when Trunks lay down again, and his arm snaked around Trunks' waist.  The demi-Saiyajin personally thought they were getting a little old for this, but on the other hand, Kioku's nightmares scared the daylights out of him.  He'd rather suffer a little embarrassment than hear his best friend cry like that . . .

Within minutes, both boys were sound asleep once more, snoring lightly.  Kioku mumbled something inarticulate, but gave no indication of battling with his inner self again.  He gave a little sigh and rested his head in the nook of Trunks' arm, and the other didn't even stir.

******

A/N: There you have it! I hope that answers everyone's questions from last time. I'm not going to go through and individually reply to everyone's reviews like some people do, so if you have a question you really want answered, e-mail me and I'll do my best to answer it. 

 However . . . I want to shine the spotlight on one question, from "Chikyuu": 

 "how many totally polar opposit personalities can exist in one chosen body(i'm not mentioning peacefully b/c I don't see that as conceviably possible) before said body's mind is thrown into compleat insanity?" 

I'm not going to answer that, because I'm not giving anything away.  Just be aware that Kioku will be figuring that out . . . later.

But as Bucky says, it's no fun writing about stable characters . . . *wink* 


	9. As the Years Go By

Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT.I don't own "Forever Young" by Rod Stewart, either.And since it's close to exams, I don't have a funny disclaimer. *sniffle* . . . I feel like such a failure!!

A/N:Um . . . yeah.It's been a long time.So no preamble from me.Just read it.

Deeper Than Colour — The Kioku Story

**Chapter Nine: As The Years Go By**

The first thing Kioku noticed was the gravity – the air on Kaiou-sama's planet was much heavier than on Earth.However, he (and Dad, Father, and Vegeta-san) was pleased to note that he and Trunks had progressed enough in their training that the 100 times Earth's gravity did not bother them at all.

"Well now, I see you've made it in record time," said the round, blue thing that stood in front of them.Kioku, not one to stare by nature, couldn't help but gape at the long antennae, wide, smiling mouth, and strange clothing._This_ was the mighty Kaiou-sama, the Lord of the Worlds?Good heavens!

"Ahem, a little respect would be nice," Kaiou-sama declared pointedly, giving Kioku a disapproving, yet still genial, stare."I know I'm handsome and all, but there's no need to be jealous."

Kioku felt blood rushing to his cheeks, and he looked away.Enma Dai-Ou, Kaiou-sama, Father . . . why did they all have to be telepathic?

"Because I'm omniscient," the catfish-thing said in a smug voice.He folded his hands behind his back and looked at the two boys."You made it across the Serpent Road in little over a day — Chikyuu time, that is.That is good — very, very good.I'm impressed.Now.I've been informed that you want to train to fight the _jinzouningen_?"

Kioku nodded silently.His throat was a parched from lack of water, but he didn't quite understand it.If he was dead, why was he thirsty?

"It's a quirk," Father broke in, looking at Kioku."Son's always hungry, too."

"Oh," Kioku rasped.

Trunks looked annoyed."Will ya' all quit talkin' in yer heads?It's really hard to know what's goin' on when you don't talk full!"

"Sorry."

"You're thirsty, eh?" Kaiou-sama smiled, then clapped his hands together."Bubbles!Bring some food and water for ours guests," he then fixed them with a look of concentration, reminiscent of the stare Enma Dai-Ou had given them earlier."You may eat and drink after you pass the test."

At this, Father groaned and slapped his forehead.Vegeta-san raised an eyebrow in mild curiosity, and Dad frowned."Do they have to?" Dad complained."We don't exactly have time for this, you know."

Kaiou-sama looked disdainful, and he sniffed indignantly."I train all you warriors for free — the least you can do is give me some laughs every once in a while.Sheesh!Now, boys, your test is to make me laugh!"

Trunks gaped."What?That's gotta' be the stupidest —"

"Boy," Vegeta snapped, and Trunks closed his mouth.

"Thank you, Vegeta," said Kaiou-sama primly."If you do not pass this test, then I'm sorry, but you will have to go back.It's tough, but that's the way it is.Your fathers had to do it, too."

  


Kioku frowned, then closed his eyes and entered the forest of his memory, searching to see if the Lord of the Worlds was telling the truth.After a bit of dodging, he found a long-buried memory, hidden in a "stump" . . . clearly Father had wanted to forget it.

The memory involved Yamucha-san, Tenshinhan-san, Chaozu-san, all three obviously wracking their brains to think of something amusing.Yamucha-san got one right away, but Tenshinhan-san was hard pressed.It finally took prompting from both the others and numerous false tries to get Kaiou-sama to laugh . . . and through it all, Father stood apart, crossing his arms.

Kioku didn't think Kaiou-sama would be fooled if he recycled an old joke — the Lord of Worlds looked like he would remember any jokes told to him.In desperation, Kioku dredged up a conversation that he and Trunks had had years ago — it had seemed funny to them as toddlers, so perhaps it would work.

"Um, okay . . . um, there were two, um sausages in a frying pan.And they were being cooked.The first sausage turned to the second sausage and said, 'Wow, it's really hot in here!', and the second sausage said, 'Yes, it certainly is.'Then the first sausage said, 'Yipes! It's a talking sausage!'"

Within a heartbeat, Kaiou-sama had burst into peals of hysterical laughter."Very good, m'boy, very good . . . 'talking sausage' indeed . . . hee, hee, hee!" at last he regained his composure."Well, you have succeeded.That leaves only you, son of Vegeta."

Trunks planted his hands on his hips, then rolled his eyes in submission."Oh, okay.I'll try to think of one . . . but it's not easy, ya' know," he added."I've been trainin' to fight, and I was just killed a couple days ago, so it's not like I have anything funny in mind or something . . ."

Everyone stared at him as the boy went into various thinking poses, each more ridiculous than the last.Kioku could tell Trunks was trying to make Kaiou-sama laugh by making funny faces, but it didn't look like that was about to work.At last, the boy laughed softly to himself.

"Aha!" Trunks exclaimed."Okay, I've got one.How many Enma Dai-Ous does it take to change a lightbulb?"

"How many?" Kaiou-sama asked dutifully.

"One.He just stands on the ladder and waits for the universe to revolve around him!" Trunks finished triumphantly.

Kaiou-sama stood and blinked at him for a few seconds, then his mouth quivered and he covered it with his hands."Stands on a ladder . . . revolve around him . . . BWAHAHAHA!" he exploded into laughter, rolling on the ground and clutching his ample sides."Ohh, that's a good one . . ." Kaiou-sama gasped."It's a good thing Enma Dai-Ou can't hear us from here . . ."

Trunks smirked and flashed a peace sign.Dad laughed appreciatively, but Vegeta-san and Father just stared.Kioku didn't get it either, but didn't say anything."Sometimes I wonder if he really is mine," Vegeta-san mused, glancing at Piccolo.

"He's yours, all right," Piccolo affirmed."No one else could have fathered something that bizarre."

"Har, har, har.Funny, Namekusejin.At least mine wasn't speaking of talking foodstuffs."

Kaiou-sama clasped his hands behind his back again, and his broad face split into a smile."Those were the best jokes I've heard in a long time," he declared."Your fathers are strong fighters, but not very proficient in the way of humour.I suggest they take some lessons from you boys. . . . And as promised, you may eat now."

A large monkey bounded out of the small house, making random "Ook, ook!" noises and waving its arms.Kaiou-sama indicated they were to follow the creature, so Kioku shrugged at Trunks and obeyed

  


It felt good to get some water into his system, and Kioku soon relaxed.He had Father's memories of interactions with Dad and Vegeta-san, but it didn't beat actually being with them in person.The three spent most of their time teasing and bantering with each other, with Dad's insults more light-hearted than the other two, and Kioku found himself laughing on several occasions.It was strange how he didn't feel out of place at all in a room full of grownups.

Trunks looked more than a little uncomfortable, though, and he shovelled food into his mouth without looking up from his plate more than twice.Kioku took pity on him and struck up a conversation about how strong they would be when they finished their training.Trunks brightened up at this, and soon the boys were predicting how long it would take them to surpass their respective parents . . .

******

That night (Kioku had been disturbed to discover that, without a sun, Kaiou-sama's planet did not have its own night-day cycle, and therefore no dark), Kioku begged Dad to allow him to sleep with him. Dad said he had been planning to stay up and spar with Father and Vegeta-san, but Kioku made it clear he felt slighted by the decision.Eventually, Dad relented and lay down beside Kioku on the sleeping pallet.

"If Kiku gets nightmares," Trunks warned, "You gotta' shake him real hard and call his name, okay?"

Dad frowned, his forehead creasing. "Nightmares?What kinds of nightmares?"Kioku shrugged.

"I dunno'," Trunks replied."Kiku never remembers 'em in the morning, but he always wakes me up.He always yells like somebody's tryin' to take over him, and sometimes he talks in a real evil voice.It's kinda' freaky.So yeah, you gotta' shake him a few times.He won't wake up, but after a while he calms down."

Dad agreed, but he looked at Kioku worriedly.The Namekusejin shrugged again. "Trunks-kun's right . . . I don't remember them afterward.But I do know that if I sleep alone, it's worse."

"H'm," Dad's arm came around Kioku and pulled him close, and the small boy cuddled up to his adoptive father gratefully.Feeling Dad's warmth and his strong arm around him, Kioku didn't know how he'd ever managed to sleep without them before."Sounds like we might have to ask Piccolo if he knows what's going on."

"Does Father have nightmares?" Kioku tried to repress a yawn, but was unsuccessful.He and Trunks had spent the rest of the 'day' chasing Bubbles around, and trying to whack a large fly-creature with a mallet.It hadn't taken very long, and after that they had sparred with each other while Kaiou-sama assessed how far along they were.

"Your Dad doesn't sleep," Dad told him, "He meditates.And if he has nightmares then, he never tells anybody.That's the way he is."

"Well, the nightmares must not be nice, 'cause I always wake up really scared," Kioku told him, snuggling even closer."But maybe with you here, I won't get them anymore."

Dad rubbed his head affectionately."Let's hope so, tiger.Now get to sleep – we're getting up early tomorrow."

"Okay.'Night, Dad.'Night, Trunks-kun."

"'Night, green freakazoid."

"'Night, half an alien."

"'Night, Mr. No Gender."

  


"'Night, sissy hair."

"'Night —"

"Hey guys, go to sleep!"

Chorused: "Sorry . . ."

******

_~*~*~*~*~_

_May the good lord be with you down every road you roam_

_And may sunshine and happiness surround you when you're far from home_

_And may you grow to be proud, dignified, and true_

_And do unto others as you would have done to you_

_~*~*~*~*~_

Morning.Kioku wakes to find his father bending over him, shaking his shoulder.Trunks gets the same treatment from Vegeta, though a little more roughly.He yawns, rubs his eyes, and drinks a few glasses of water while Trunks has breakfast.

Next, they join the Earth's former warriors and begin their training.Though there is no sun, the planet is brightly lit by the orange clouds, and Kioku soon gets used to its odd light.As he spars, he is filled with a strange jubilation, the endorphins flowing through him like water in a river, a crazy grin on his face.

Father stands off to the side, watching him, and Vegeta is next to him.Both watch out the corners of their eyes, as though they don't want to be caught observing, but in the glances that he can afford to toss their way, Kioku thinks he sees pride in their eyes.He smiles.

He decides he wants to grow up to be just like his fathers — both of them.Proud and strong, fighting for what was right . . . never hesitating to battle for what they know istrue.Kioku vows that with this goal in mind, he will eventually be the greatest warrior ever.

The child throws himself into his training with renewed vigour, and a muttered oath of challenge to the _jinzouningen_.

_~*~*~*~*~_

_Be courageous and be brave_

_And in my heart you'll always stay_

_Forever young, forever young_

_~*~*~*~*~_

Son ChiChi holds a watering can in shaky hands, staring at the neatly-tended graves before her.Her black hair is tied up with a black ribbon, and over her stooped shoulders she wears a black shawl.She pauses before each stone, bowing respectfully before watering the flowers growing there.Over three of the graves she stops and kneels, resting her hand on the top of the marker._Son Goku_. _Piccolo_._Son Kioku and Briefs Trunks_.Her black eyes shimmer, but no tears fall.She is long past the point of crying now.

A hand falls on her shoulder, and she looks back to see her son looking down at her, smiling sadly.He has grown up so, all the boyish softness gone from his face, lines of care and sorrow etched around his eyes, mouth, and forehead. His black hair is cut short, but is still shaggy.Scars criss-cross his arms, chest, and back, and he sports two long, jagged welts on his face — one on his forehead, one on his cheek.He looks much older than his years.

  


ChiChi squeezes Gohan's hand, and she leans back against him.They remain like that, unmoving, like two more statues in the graveyard.Neither speaks.They stare at the gravestones, both sadly grateful that the two little ones buried there have not aged as they themselves have.

Inside the house, in the basement, Briefs Bulma works feverishly at her computer — the only one left online in the entire Capsule Corps. compound.She frowns at the screen, moves closer and squints, then types again.She, too, has aged – her beautiful face has worry lines on its forehead, and her mouth is pursed in a perpetual grimace.She works to escape the pain.

On Bulma's desk sit many framed photographs; one of a scar-faced man with his arm slung over Bulma's shoulders; one of a scowling man with flaming black hair . . . and several of a small toddler with tousled lavender hair and bright blue eyes, grinning wildly at the camera.

_~*~*~*~*~_

_May good fortune be with you, may your guiding light be strong_

_Build a stairway to heaven with a prince or a vagabond_

_~*~*~*~*~_

Kioku dodges a punch from Goku, whom he knows is not fighting full out.It has been over three years, and Kioku still has not surpassed either of his parents.He is frustrated, but knows it will take time — he has not the unrealistic expectations of Trunks, who believed he would be stronger than Vegeta in a matter of weeks.Kioku is of a different species than his best friend, and knows the value of patience.

Across the field, Trunks fights viciously with Vegeta. Vegeta spars with much more intensity than Goku does, but Trunks doesn't seem to mind.He trains with a single-minded determination that both Goku and Piccolo assert is present in his father.Trunks is obsessed with controlling his Super Saiyajin ability, but he is still unable to make the transformation unless his emotions and rage are at their peak.

Kioku wipes sweat from his brow, to stop the salty liquid from stinging his eyes.His fist comes away soaked with violet, but he ignores it.He has had much worse injuries than this.Piccolo taught him to regenerate his arm back at the beginning of his training, but sometimes he forgets to use it, so accustomed has he become to fighting one-handed.Only recently has he begun to use it again.

He stands, but his legs shake and his knees begin to give way.He has been fighting Goku and Piccolo since 'dawn', and it is almost time to return to bed.Kioku is thirsty and tired, but will never admit it.

Trunks flares to Super Saiyajin for a brief second, then collapses.Vegeta smirks proudly, picks up his son, and announces they may as well stop for the day.Kioku complains to save face, but allows Goku to carry him inside.

They make a strange group . . . the Prince of the Saiyajin race, the former king of demons, a third-class warrior-cum-legend, and their sons . . . but they know each other well by now.They are family.

_~*~*~*~*~_

_And may you never love in vain_

_And in my heart you will always remain_

_Forever young_

_~*~*~*~*~ _

Gohan returns from another battle with the _jinzouningen_, bruised and battered, his clothes stained crimson.The machines don't even try to fight him anymore — they know they can win easily, and they beat him into unconsciousness within a matter of minutes.They keep him alive, they taunt, because it's fun to play with him.

  


ChiChi and Bulma carry Gohan to bed, groaning under his weight.He is in his early twenties now, and packed with muscle, but somehow the women manage to lift him onto his bed and tend to his massive wounds.He won't die yet — oh, no.Not until the _jinzouningen_ grow tired of the game.Not until no humans are left for them to kill.

Bulma returns to her lab to work on her mysterious project, the one she will let none of the other see, but ChiChi remains by Gohan's bed, holding his hand until he returns to consciousness.She knows why Gohan continues to fight the _jinzouningen_ when he knows he cannot win.She knows why he risks his life again and again, to save people in cities who almost always die anyway.

It is because Gohan feels he has failed Kioku and Trunks, by not making it in time.And if he saves enough children, fights enough battles, receives enough wounds . . . perhaps he will not feel the pain of guilt that surrounds his every waking moment, and haunts his dreams.

ChiChi shakes her head.The wall above Gohan's bed is plastered with photographs of Kioku and Trunks, as babies and toddlers — every photo Gohan has managed to salvage from albums and dusty boxes, he has taped up here.A constant reminder of the children he let die.

They would be thirteen and fourteen years old, were they alive now, ChiChi knows.But in her mind they are still infants, toddlers with round faces and chubby limbs, wide smiles and bright eyes.She cannot picture them as teenagers, tall and lanky, muscled . . . cannot picture their voices deeper, their innocence dimmed by years of hardship.

She prefers to think of them as infants, untainted by the horrors of the world they left behind.It is much easier that way.

_~*~*~*~*~_

_And when you finally fly away, I'll be hoping that I served you well_

_For all the wisdom of a lifetime, no one can ever tell_

_But whatever road you choose_

_I'm right behind you_

_Win or lose_

_~*~*~*~*~_

Years have passed since two inexperienced boys joined their family and friends in the world of the dead.In that time, the children have grown, passed through adolescence, and now stand at the brink of adulthood.Their bodies and minds have matured, their strength multiplied exponentially, their techniques improved beyond measure.

Kioku is stronger than Piccolo now, and has even surpassed the mighty Goku.He can beat them both in sparring matches, and they have the bruises to prove it.Vegeta, when pressed, grudgingly admits that Trunks has outmatched him in fight after fight.The demi-Saiyajin can flare to Super Saiyajin whenever he wishes, though he cannot retain the state in non-combat situations.

Kioku is nearly as tall as Piccolo, with the physique to match.Trunks stands a full head above Vegeta.No longer can any trace of the laughing, playful boys be found in their features, except on the rare occasion when something gives them cause to smile.

Piccolo has announced they are strong enough to defeat the _jinzouningen_ now, and they must return to Earth.But the jubilation this once would have procured is now muted, almost forced.Over the years, the boys have come to love their fathers dearly, and it is much harder than was foreseen to think of leaving them.

They stand together on their last night in the Other World, two Namekusejin and three of Saiyajin descent.None of them speak, and they all gaze out at the orange horizon.Kioku tries hard not to think of what will happen tomorrow.

  


Kaiou-sama watches from a distance, silently thinking how impressed he is by the young warriors.They have shown dedication. skill. and strength unmatched by any fighter he has ever known.They have grown strong and powerful, and he knows he will be sad to see them go.

But strangely enough, the Lord of the Worlds knows that when he remembers them in future years, it will not be those tall, sculpted figures whom he recalls.It will be the memory of the sarcastic, scowling demi-Saiyajin with the quick wit and tousled hair, and the green-skinned Namekusejin boy who couldn't keep the smile from his face . . .That will never change.

_~*~*~*~*~_

_Forever Young_

_Forever Young_

_Forever Young_

_~*~*~*~*~_


	10. Through Death, Time, and Eternity: When ...

Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT are the properties of Akira Toriyama, Toei Animation, and FUNimation Studios. I make no profit from this story (though I've been tempted) and do not claim the characters as my own. Only Kioku is mine, and no one may steal him. He's just too sweet.

A/N: I'm almost embarrassed to be posting again; it's been over two years, if I remember correctly. I refuse to look at the 'Updated ...' link on my stats page, because it's horrifically in the past.

What can I say? I sort of fell out of DBZ for a while, and any fanfic writer can tell you that it's difficult, if not impossible, to get back it a fandom from which you've drifted. I felt I'd said all I could say, and besides — I'm in university now, too. Spare time is more of a luxury than a right.

However, one day I sat down with a piece of paper and wrote down what I wanted to accomplish in Chapter 11. A page and a half of point form later, I sat down and began to write. Surprisingly, once I sat down and dedicated myself to it, this chapter came out in a matter of days. I've re-opened my wrist fracture (gotta love RSIs), but it's more than worth it. Kioku is a great character, and I love him to pieces.

Hmm. You guys have waited two-ish years for the next chapter, not my inane babbling, so ... on with the show!

Deeper Than Colour -- The Kioku Story

**Chapter Ten: Through Death, Time and Eternity; When Embraces Last Forever**

Son Kioku stood next to his adoptive father, listening to Piccolo quarrel, once again, with the Lord of the Underworld and Supreme Judger of Souls, Enma Dai-Ou. "They fight a lot," he remarked under his breath, glancing down at Goku.

"They're like an old married couple, aren't they," Son Goku chuckled, and Kioku grinned. He'd never get used to looking _down_ at Goku, but he was just going to have to accept it. Trunks stood a head higher than Vegeta now, something that the young demi-Saiyajin never tired of pointing out.

Not, of course, that they would have long to live with it. If all went well, the Namekusejin dragon Porunga would wish Kioku and Trunks back to life and send them to Earth before the day was over.

Kioku was trying not to think about it. Ten years was a long time, and he knew he'd become accustomed to "living" in Other World with Goku, Piccolo, and the other _senshi_. There was no way to wish _them_ back to life; and if Piccolo was correct about Kioku and Trunks' potential, then Kioku wouldn't get to see his friends for a very long time.

The young Namekusejin shook his head and focussed on the conversation. Currently, Piccolo was striving to obtain permission to fuse with Kioku, arguing that if he were to become the Earth's new Guardian, he would need Kami-sama's knowledge.

"My answer is no," the giant ogre proclaimed, folding his hands and setting them down on his desk with a particularly loud thump. "By fusing with your son, you would effectively be bringing yourself back to life, as well. And that is simply not allowed."

Piccolo was livid, though only the curl of his lip and a slight rasp to his voice betrayed his emotion. "Do you think I care about coming back to life?" he demanded, "But you can't expect him to be Guardian all by himself! The boy doesn't even know how to create _Dragonballs_!"

"Some Guardian he'll be, if he can't figure things out for himself," Enma Dai-Ou said primly. It was difficult to imagine such a large being looking priggish, but somehow, Enma Dai-Ou managed it. "I understand your concern, Piccolo, but my answer is final."

Piccolo reigned in his temper with visible effort, pulling his gleaming fangs back behind his lips. Kioku sensed the churning thoughts inside his birth father's mind, and he winced at some of the obscenities rolling around there.

"I will inform the inhabitants of Namekusei to begin collecting their Dragonballs, and I'll write up the necessary paperwork and such to give Porunga the power to resurrect them. You may all go," Enma Dai-Ou waved a large, thick-fingered hand at them. "I will transport you to Neo-Namekusei in three hours."

"Well, that went well," Goku quipped, throwing an arm around Kioku's shoulders. "You gonna be all right, Piccolo?"

"Quiet," Piccolo growled, falling into step beside them. "That buffoon — he doesn't understand the situation at _all_! It's a wonder he even made this position."

Trunks spoke up for the first time, his tone sarcastic. "Yeah, I bet he got his job because of his good looks," the lavender-haired teenager laughed. He tossed an arrogant, amused glance at Kioku, who returned it in kind.

The young man had certainly grown up handsome, as Kuririn often remarked with a tinge of jealousy in his voice. Kioku wasn't too certain how the human (or Saiyajin) standard of aesthetics was measured, but even he had to marvel at how much Trunks had changed. Gone were the round face and baby cheeks, the too-big ears and clumsy gait. Trunks was now tall and lean, though his long, pale hair still refused to stick up in proper Saiyajin fashion — much to Vegeta's chagrin.

As though he'd read Kioku's mind, Trunks put a hand to his shaggy ponytail and laughed. "Mom probably won't even recognize me with this, eh?"

"If she doesn't throw you out thinking you're a beggar, she'll attack you with shears," Vegeta smirked, "She'd have done it to me, if I'd let her."

Goku just snickered. "If you'd 'let her', eh?" he elbowed the smaller fighter, whose face darkened as though he knew what Goku was about to say. "Somehow it always struck me that _Bulma_ wore the pants in the relationship."

Everyone swivelled to see Vegeta's reaction, but the powerful warrior checked his obvious fury with admirable skill. "Like you're one to talk, Kakkarot," he snorted. "Mine isn't the only one who's in control."

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Kioku thought he saw pride flicker over both Vegeta and Goku's faces as they considered their respective companions. Whether it truly was there or not, it made Kioku smile.

Piccolo dropped an arm on Kioku's shoulder and pulled him aside. Kioku looked at his father questioningly, but Piccolo shook his head.

_Enma Dai-Ou is a fool,_ Piccolo's voice rang in Kioku's mind, sharp with accusation and barely withheld passion. _He does not realize what he is doing. We must complete the fusion, with or without his permission._

_But Father!_ Kioku protested, shock permeating even his mental 'voice'. _Enma Dai-Ou is a Supreme Being! Don't you think he knows what he's doing?_

Piccolo's face twitched as though he was repressing a snort or some such expression of distaste. _Feh. Don't be ridiculous. If we perform the transfer quickly enough, he'll never know. For all he pays attention, I could be sulking in hell for the rest of eternity. By the time he figures it out, you'll be back on Earth, and the time for him to intervene will be long gone._

To Kioku, the idea sounded dangerous, like the time, many years ago, when Trunks had suggested putting a metal bowl in Bulma's microwave to see if it _really_ would explode. However, Piccolo was older and wiser than he was, and not known for being a rash person, and Kioku had come to trust him implicitly.

And yet . . .

_Father_ . . . the thought came to him slowly, and Kioku hesitated to voice it in case he became the target of Piccolo's all-too-volatile ire. _Are you _sure_ you don't want to come back yourself, even in the slightest?_

His progenitor stared at him with palpable disbelief. _Did you not hear —_

_Not even to see Gohan?_ Kioku pressed. At this, a slight twinge came from Piccolo's emotions, and Kioku nodded mentally. He'd thought so.

Various fledgling expressions worked their way over Piccolo's facial muscles before his usual emotionless façade quashed them. At last, he turned away, and his mental voice carried the note of something that was almost, but not quite, a sigh.

_I miss him_, Piccolo's face spasmed in a dark frown, and his fangs glistened in the light, suddenly revealed. _I've fought against it; these feelings cloud my judgment. I know this. _

_Father —_

_Say nothing of this!_ The older Namekusejin snapped at him, turning the full fury of his glare upon Kioku. _Yes, I want to see Gohan again. I've thought about it for some time now, being able to speak to him through you. But that is not why I insist on our fusing._

Kioku smiled a little, wishing he could show his father some sort of affection, but knowing it would not be welcome. _I understand._

_Do you?_ Piccolo's words carried a snarl now, but he quickly pushed it back. _Gah, don't kill yourself over it. It's not your fault._

_Well, no matter what, Father, I want to fuse with you. I accepted the position of Guardian, and I can't do it on my own._

"Guys? Yo, guys!"

Kioku and Piccolo spun around to see the three Saiyajin ahead of them, staring at them with mixed expressions of amusement, confusion, and annoyance. Goku grinned. "Not that I'm being nosy or anything, but would you mind talking out loud so we can all understand you?"

Had Kioku been any other species, he would have blushed. He felt guilty each time Trunks caught him having a telepathic conversation, for his friend always looked at him with mild betrayal. Not for the first time, Kioku wondered if it was possible to forge a mental link with Trunks so they could communicate, as well.

"You weren't making fun of my hair, were you?" Trunks grinned, slinging an arm around Kioku's shoulders. It was slightly more difficult for him to do so now, with their height difference, but it didn't matter to Trunks. Nothing did.

"Only a little," Kioku teased. It was odd that they were so cheerful on the day they were to leave their fathers and friends, but he supposed it was only natural. All the _senshi_ were adept at concealing their true emotions when a job needed doing. "Want me to cut it off again before we go home?"

Trunks shook his head, and he reached behind his neck to play with the shank of hair again. "Nah. I'm actually kinda' attached to it, you know?"

Kioku knew. They'd both become connected to little things that reminded them of the life they'd spent training, and he predicted they would both have trouble relinquishing them. For Kioku, one such item was the pendant that hung around his neck, beneath his gi. It was a seashell from one of heaven's beaches, fastened on a leather thong with many knots.

Kuririn fashioned it for him in secret, one knot for each battle Kioku won against one of the _senshi_, a double knot for each new technique learned. Apparently, the former monk had made a similar necklace for himself during his childhood training, and had fingered the string when discouraged, counting each accomplishment. He'd given Kioku the necklace only the night before, when Kaio-sama declared their training complete.

Kioku played with it now, liking the way the rough leather felt beneath his fingers. Trunks caught him, and the older boy — correction, young man — favoured him with a knowing smile.

Goku made a face. "You know what? To heck with telepathy; _you_ kids 'talk' without talking all the time."

The comment made Kioku remember his mental query about making a link with Trunks. With the two of them training together constantly, it wasn't such a concern, but upon their imminent return to Earth, he thought it might come in handy.

"Father?" Kioku glanced at Trunks, who raised an eyebrow in question. "Is it possible to join two minds together, even if one is not Namekusejin?"

Piccolo nodded shortly. "Yes. I have a bond with Gohan," his eyes suddenly looked far away, and a peaceful, almost reminiscent emotion washed through his mind. It surprised Kioku, who wasn't used to such soft feelings in his father. As soon as Kioku detected it, however, the tendril of memory vanished and Piccolo gave him a hard look. "Tenshinhan and Chaozu do, as well. Why? Do you want to create one?"

"Well, Trunks-kun is always whining about not knowing what I say to you," Kioku jostled Trunks, chuckling when his friend poked him in return. "And I thought it would be an asset in battle; you know, so we could coordinate attacks without our opponents hearing us."

"That would be very useful," Vegeta agreed, his face thoughtful. "Those damned _jinzouningen_ are tricky; any advantage would be of great help to you."

That Trunks brightened at the idea did not escape Kioku's notice, and he felt secretly pleased. It always bothered him that Trunks felt, well, jealous was the only word — though the demi-Saiyajin staunchly denied it — about the bond between Kioku and Piccolo. He didn't want his best friend to feel left out of anything.

"Sounds good to me," Trunks piped up, "That would definitely help us when we combine _kamehameha_ waves."

"So how would we set one up?" Kioku asked, anxious to get his idea underway, but also with the motive to stall the fusion. He didn't like the idea of deceiving Enma Dai-Ou at all, and if he could get distract Piccolo long enough . . .

Piccolo frowned. "I'm not sure. With Gohan, it was always just . . . there. I tuned my mind to his when he was in the desert training, so I could check his progress without requiring my being there. Gohan, being curious, played with the link until he figured out what it was, and somehow managed to strengthen it."

"Oh," Kioku scratched his head, wondering how to go about this. He was an adult now, but retained the childish quality that when he got a plan, he wanted to do it _right now_.

"Just try to touch Trunks' mind," Piccolo's shoulders lifted in the slightest inclination of a shrug. "Trunks, if you feel the contact, reach out to it. If your minds join and you both push it, a bond should form. Its strength depends on how close you two are, and that shouldn't be a problem."

Kioku nodded. He closed his eyes and pushed his consciousness forward, out of his mind. It connected with Piccolo immediately, out of reflex, but the other Namekusejin shoved it away with evident impatience. Kioku pulled the questioning tendril back and tried again, but to no avail.

Frustrated, Kioku stepped forward, placed one hand on either side of Trunks' face, and rested his forehead against Trunks'. "Why, Kioku," Trunks batted his eyelids in mock coquetry, a bizarre effect due to their proximity, "I didn't know you felt this way."

"Shut up," Kioku snorted. Fortunately, he was used to his friend's antics, or he would have no doubt been rather nonplussed. "You're breaking my concentration."

"Sorry," dutifully, though not without a roguish wink, Trunks closed his eyes and his brow furrowed.

With physical contact established, it was much easier for Kioku to contact Trunks' mind. Trunks had no skill in this area, a fact evidenced by the clumsy way in which he manipulated his consciousness. When Kioku attempted to form the bond, Trunks answered with a push that actually _hurt_.

"Ow!" Kioku exclaimed, pulling back in surprise. Trunks rubbed his temples, his mouth twisting in a grimace of pain. _Somebody needs to teach him how to control his mind,_ Kioku thought, feeling a slight tinge of superiority that he needed no such coaching.

"Hey!" Trunks scowled, "Of course somebody has to teach me. I'm new at this, ya' know."

"Trunks?" Goku tilted his head to one side. "Nobody said anything."

"He did!" Trunks pointed at Kioku, looking cross. "He said I can't control my mind and someone should show me how."

The others shook their heads, and slowly, comprehension dawned on the two friends. "I guess that means it worked," Trunks looked sceptical, and he snapped his eyes shut again. The tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth, a habit he'd not yet abandoned from childhood.

_I feel very stupid doing this,_ the thought came into Kioku's mind, tentatively. _It's as if I'm talking to a wall or something. I don't even know if you can hear me._

Kioku broke into a wide grin. _No, I can, _he made eye contact with Trunks, who beamed in spite of himself. _This might be fun!_

"You should be able to feel each other's emotions, as well," Piccolo cut in, "As for distance, you'll have to experiment to find the limit."

Suddenly, Trunks stopped short. "Wait!" he burst out, "Can we turn this off?"

Piccolo blinked. It was obvious he'd never even considered such a thing with Gohan. "How do you mean?"

Trunks' cheeks, stained with a splash of red, supported the strong sense of embarrassment that Kioku sensed flooding from him. "Well, after we've defeated the _jinzouningen_ and have normal lives and all . . . say I get a girlfriend. If we're . . . well . . . you know, will Kioku be able to tell exactly what we're _doing_?"

The older fighters coughed almost in unison and became very busy examining their boots. Kioku, with no idea what was going on, looked at Trunks in confusion. Finally, Goku spoke up. "I'd say yes," he glanced up, and Kioku was surprised to note that all three of their faces were flushing. "I mean, we can tell that from how their _ki_ is spiking, so it'll probably be worse for you . . ."

Kioku threw up his hands. "What are you talking about?"

Trunks sniggered, recovering a little of his self-control. "_You_ wouldn't understand, Mister Asexual," for a moment, the lanky, battle-worn youth became once again a snarky six-year-old with biting humour.

Kioku drew his bottom lip between his teeth. "Does this have to do with that whole gender thing?" Trunks nodded. "Oh. But how come Father knows?"

Goku let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "Piccolo, uh, found out the hard way. His ki sense is stronger than most, thanks to his telepathy, and —"

"That's enough," Piccolo snapped, ending the bizarre conversation abruptly. The others seemed relieved, and Kioku decided to drop it; Trunks slammed down a distinct negative before he could even frame a mental question.

_Sexual beings certainly are strange,_ Kioku thought — to himself, but Trunks' ears reddened nonetheless. Maybe such a strong bond wasn't entirely a good idea.

"Don'tcha think we should get going?" Goku's cheerful voice broke through the awkwardness as he clasped Piccolo and Vegeta by the shoulders. Kioku and Trunks held on; their surroundings shimmered briefly, and returned to normal outside Kaio-sama's house.

Kioku blinked. Balloons, streamers, and tables of food filled the tiny yard. The other warriors stood in front of the house, grinning or smirking as their personalities saw fit, and when their images firmly coalesced, Kuririn burst from the group to wrap both Kioku and Trunks in as much of a hug as his short arms could manage.

"I'm so proud of you guys!" the middle-aged human's eyes streamed with tears, from happiness or sorrow, Kioku wasn't sure which. He guessed a little bit of both. "No, really! You have no idea how freakin' strong you are now!"

"They get hints now and then, hey?" Goku laughed, walking to Kuririn and dropping his arm on the smaller man's shoulders. Kuririn reached up and gripped Goku's hand, leaning against his friend for support. Goku smiled at him, but the corners of his eyes didn't crinkle as they usually did. A look passed between them that Kioku didn't quite understand.

_Kuririn-san's taking this hard,_ Trunks' voice came loudly into Kioku's mind, unaccustomed to hearing anyone but Piccolo. _It's like we were his kids, too._

_Yes, I think so, too. _Kioku nodded, realizing Trunks was correct. _I think Dad and Kuririn-san understand each other on that point._

"Aw, heck," Kuririn scrubbed at his eyes, beaming up at them as best he could. "Don't get down just 'cause I'm sad," his voice turned wistful for a moment. "It's just that . . . well, with you two around, I didn't regret not being able to have kids myself. When you're gone, it's gonna be tough."

"We're _all_ gonna miss you guys," Yamucha spoke up, and like Goku, his disarming grin didn't quite reach his eyes. "I remember how psyched I was to get a second chance — but I didn't have to deal with it from the other side."

Vegeta snorted. "I'm just disappointed that I won't be the one to dispatch those tin cans, that's all."

Kioku's mouth quirked and Trunks laughed, neither of them contradicting the Saiyajin Prince. Vegeta huffed anyway, and headed for the food table, followed by an enthusiastic Goku who'd obviously just been waiting for someone else to go first.

But despite how much they joked and laughed, Kioku could see it on all their faces. It made more than one pun fall flat, and caused several long silences. But what could they do? He and Trunks had to go back, and that was that.

During one awkward pause, Piccolo drew him aside. "Now's the time," he muttered, "If we are to do this, we must do it now."

Sick of arguing and knowing Piccolo would have his way anyhow, Kioku merely nodded. He shoved his misgivings aside with reluctant dutifulness, and squared off against Piccolo. "I'm sorry for doubting you earlier, Father."

"Don't bother," Piccolo scowled, though the hard edges of his face relaxed infinitesimally. "Come."

The two hovered in the air in lotus position, something they'd done so many times in meditation that the others were sure to think nothing of it. "Concentrate on leaving your mind completely open," Piccolo instructed, and Kioku winced. He always left some barriers up; it didn't feel safe otherwise. "How else do you expect us to fuse?" Piccolo snapped.

Kioku closed his eyes and focussed on taking down his mental obstacles; in his mind they were like a thick wall of vines, impenetrable to any who wished to pry, and he imagined burning them with _ki_ blasts.

Soon, he felt a cold, almost slimy sensation touch against his mind. Kioku recoiled without thinking, but Piccolo stopped him. _Don't resist! It is not pleasant, I know._

_No, not at all,_ Kioku shuddered; the tendrils creeping into his consciousness felt like nothing he'd ever experienced. They were invasive and forceful, unlike mutual conversations, which left a warm, soothing sensation behind.

All at once, a thick and powerful evil slammed into him, knocking him from his meditative position and almost to the ground. Kioku gasped and refrained from throwing up defences only with the greatest effort; he could feel the other presence searching through his mind greedily.

Piccolo pulled back with a gasp, sweat pouring from his smooth skin. "Well," he said, words nearly obscured by his laboured breathing, too suddenly exhausted to use telepathy. "That was unexpected."

"What just happened?" Kioku demanded, shaking. He placed a hand to his head, which ached terribly.

"Apparently, fusing becomes more complicated when more personalities are involved," Piccolo managed to catch his breath and his composure, and he frowned. "I have four beings inside me; myself, Kami, Neru, and . . . my sire. You have the memories of all of us, which creates almost a shadow personality. It must be too much to assimilate all at once."

"So what does that mean?" Kioku grimaced. Images of vast carnage flooded through him with strength not felt since his childhood; it was a struggle to push them back. He sat with a hand over his eyes for some time, fighting.

Piccolo waited until Kioku controlled himself and looked up; when he did, his father's face was grave. "It seems I can only transfer one entity at a time, in order of their possession of this body. Naturally, the first was —"

"Piccolo Daimaou," Kioku whispered.

As he mouthed the words, a shiver of something ran through him, igniting him as though his very blood turned to fire. _Yes,_ a voice hissed, _Yes . . . it is I._

Kioku focussed all his energy on subduing the foreign presence, and shoving back a thread of fear. He knew Daimaou was dead and that Piccolo was his reincarnation, so to speak; in any event, Daimaou should not be an actual entity in Piccolo's mind. But still, he felt that tiny pinprick of terror. Perhaps the memories of Daimaou, free from the restraining force of Kami-sama, had somehow managed to form a new consciousness . . .

Piccolo seemed worried. "I feel strange," he murmured, "Daimaou's memories have left me. The evil that dominated me for so long has vanished, completely," then, his eyes widened.

_Quickly_! Piccolo barked, in control of his thought transference once more, _We must complete the fusion, in case Daimaou has indeed managed to channel himself into you. Open your mind!_

"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"

The thick, familiar accent cut through their communication, startling Kioku so badly that his walls slammed down out of reflex, causing Piccolo to grunt in pain and withdraw. Kaio-sama was running toward them as fast as his round body could take him. The other _senshi_ followed him in a ragged line, looking confused.

"What do you think you're _doing_? If Enma Dai-Ou discovers what you're doing, it will all be over! Oh dear, oh dear!" The Lord of the Worlds wrung his hands in front of his expansive belly. "You must stop the fusion this very instant!"

"Don't worry, old man," Piccolo snarled, "You're just imagining things."

"I most certainly am not!" Kaio-sama scowled, "You attempted to transfer yourself into Kioku's body! Had you accomplished this, Enma Dai-Ou would most _definitely_ have noticed. And if that had happened, he would have taken back the entire offer! Kioku and Trunks would have to stay here, and the Earth would be doomed!" he paused long enough to gasp for breath, staring at Piccolo with accusatory venom in his face.

"You may think you're doing the right thing, but I assure you, you're wrong," Kaio-sama pointed at Kioku. "Anyone with even a _worm's_ telepathic ability would be able to sense the extra presences inside this boy. Do you think Enma Dai-Ou would be unable to do so?"

Kioku turned to look at Piccolo, whose expression morphed from angry, to thoughtful, and at last, a mixture of resignation and something akin to chagrin. Or at least, as close as Piccolo ever got to self-deprecation, anyway. He jerked his chin in a short nod. "Very well. But what about Daimaou?"

Those fighters who had seen the ancient evil many years ago turned white; Kuririn stumbled backwards, and Goku's face went grim. Silently, they gazed at Kioku, who could feel cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. "I think I can control him," he said, "I don't believe he is an actual entity; if he truly is Daimaou, he is a shadow; nothing more."

Goku, still uncharacteristically solemn, stepped forward to put a hand on Kioku's shoulder. "You okay, son?"

_SON GOKU!_

For the _n_th time that day, a mental voice stabbed its way through Kioku's mind. He stared at his father uncomprehendingly, for a cold, vicious hatred was flooding through him.

_He fought me . . . he humiliated me . . . he killed me! You must kill him. WE must kill him. You must kill Son Goku!_

Kioku knocked the concerned hand away, and actually began to power up when the rest of him caught up to what his subconscious was doing. "NO!" he shouted, shoving at the evil presence with all the force he could muster, mentally screaming a definite refusal.

And then there was pain. Sharp, piercing pain, slamming into Kioku from every angle, and he collapsed in a writhing heap. He could hear voices somewhere above him, but he could not discern to whom they belonged or what they were saying. The only thing he heard was Daimaou's command; the only thing he felt was the hurt when he resisted.

_You are I,_ Daimaou insisted, _I am you. We are one; together; we can defeat Son Goku. We can defeat everyone, and rule the world. We can bathe in the blood of these humans, clothe ourselves in their skins, to repay the wrong they have done us. They called us the Devil; for that, we will give them a swift journey to Hell!_

Kioku didn't know how long he fought the voice, closing down as many walls as he could to trap it in the very back of his unconscious mind, away from anything it could control. Yet still it fought him, with such force that he wondered how Piccolo managed to become anything but the next Demon King forever . . .

"Kioku! Kioku, come back!"

Words, distinct, intelligible words, cut through both Daimaou's insistent demands and the haze of voices outside.

"Come on, Kioku, we've beaten this before. It's just like your nightmares, right?"

Nightmares . . . yes, he did have those occasionally. His nights, filled so often with terrifying dreams of death and bloodshed. Daimaou had tried to take over him even then, and Trunks had stopped him . . .

_Trunks-kun!_

"I used to make them go away. Remember? He can't get you while I'm here, okay? You tell him that!"

Light flooded into Kioku's mind, and he sat up with a gasp. "Trunks-kun!" he shouted, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. As his vision cleared, Kioku saw the warriors standing over him, various expressions of concern and fear smattered across their faces.

Something warm and sticky was trickling down his left wrist, and Kioku glanced at it. His fingers intertwined with Trunks', the demi-Saiyajin clasping Kioku's hand tightly. Kioku, in his panic, had squeezed back so hard that his talons dug into his friend's skin. Trunks' blood was causing the odd sensation.

Kioku pulled away, not wanting to hurt Trunks any more than he already had. "I'm sorry!"

"It's okay," Trunks stared at his arm, seemingly fascinated by the crimson liquid following the line of his muscles. "You were tearing at your head and screaming. I didn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Well, that was scary," Kuririn piped up. His face was pale. "Is that gonna happen every time you hear Daimaou's name now?"

Kioku shuddered, but the commanding voice didn't come. "It seems I've pushed him back for the time being," he said slowly. His heart still pounded in his chest, and it made breathing difficult. Beside him, Trunks tore a strip from his black tank top and wrapped it around his wrist, pulling the makeshift bandage tight with his teeth.

"This is an interesting development," Kaio-sama sounded extremely nervous, probably thinking of Enma Dai-Ou's reaction if he found out. "How are you going to keep Daimaou under control?"

Piccolo cut through the ensuing silence. "I have taught Kioku how to meditate to control the evil within him. And Kami suggests that I create a link between Kioku and myself. Just so that we can communicate, in case Kami's presence is needed to counter Daimaou's evil."

Kaio-sama pondered for a moment, and then agreed. The link was not difficult to establish, and Kioku felt a substantial amount of relief at the thought of having his father's help at his disposal.

"Before you become Guardian, you must purge the evil from yourself, as Kami did," Piccolo continued afterward. "It may take some months, but you should be able to remove Daimaou's presence. He will no doubt take physical form as he did many years ago, and you will have to destroy him. He must not be allowed to wreak havoc on the Earth again."

"I understand, Father," Kioku's strength had returned, and he was able to stand without getting dizzy.

"The Namekusejin are ready," Kaio-sama interjected, his antennae twitching. "You must travel to Neo Namekusei now."

The goodbyes were long and tearful; only Piccolo, Vegeta and Tenshinhan managed to remain stoic, and even they had to turn away as Porunga granted the wishes.

Only minutes remained; Kioku dashed forward and wrapped Goku in a tight embrace, startled to feel a warm wetness seeping through his gi top. Goku laughed a little self-consciously and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand. Piccolo clasped Kioku's shoulder, gazing at him proudly.

Trunks stood apart from the others, watching his father with sorrow visible in his clear, blue eyes, and Kioku's heart ached for him. Though Vegeta had softened much toward his son over the years, Kioku knew the Saiyajin had not let down his guard enough to allow a hug.

Trunks and Kioku began to shimmer; Kioku tore himself away from his fathers, feeling as though some part of him was remaining with them. Just as everyone else started to fade, something snapped in Vegeta's face. The smaller warrior disappeared and reappeared in front of Trunks, gripped his son's right hand in his fist, then flung the other arm around Trunks' shoulders. "Tell her," Vegeta's voice was low and rough. "I never did. She needs to know."

"Father!" Trunks twisted his free hand in the back of Vegeta's shirt, all pretence of Saiyajin pride gone.

Vegeta drew back. "You . . . you look like her, brat," a look crossed his face that was almost gentle, and then it was gone.

And then . . . so was everyone else. Trunks and Kioku were alone, in a deserted city, and they were alive.

"Well," Trunks' eyes shimmered, but he didn't wipe them, allowing the next gust of wind to carry the tears away, sparkling in the air. "Let's go home."

"Yes, let's," Kioku let his hand fall to Trunks' shoulder, and the two friends took to the air.

They had braved famine, loneliness, battle, even death, and now, fifteen years later, they were going home.

* * *

By the time Trunks and Kioku reached Capsule Corp., night had fallen. In the absence of city lights, the sky was ablaze with stars, a glorious harmony of light. Kioku stopped in front of the door for a long while, staring agape at the sight.

"Do you realize it's been ten years since we've seen stars?" Kioku breathed. The perpetual orange clouds at Kaiou-sama's were pretty, but nothing compared to what he was seeing now.

Trunks just shook his head, his hair glowing silver in the moonlight. He never understood Kioku's obsession with nature's beauty, but at least he didn't make fun anymore. "Our families are inside, and you want to look at the _sky_?"

Kioku ducked away, feeling a little sheepish. "I know. Just ring the doorbell."

The demi-Saiyajin sucked in his breath, then pressed the white button over the intercom. "I don't know what to say," he muttered under his breath. "Oh well; too late now."

Soon, the speakers crackled and a familiar voice came through. Though he only knew Bulma's voice from scattered memories, as soon as Kioku heard it, everything came flooding back.

Kioku half-expected Bulma to demand who was waking her up so late, but that was not the case. She sounded groggy but alert, an edge of controlled alarm underlying her words. "Do you have wounded? Bring them around to the back and I'll meet you with a stretcher and a medical robot."

Trunks glanced at Kioku, who shrugged. It made sense that Bulma and ChiChi would channel their energies into helping whomever they could; neither of them was able to stand by and watch others suffer. "Mom?" Trunks swallowed hard, clearly nervous. "Mom, it's me. Trunks."

Bulma paused. When she spoke again, there was ice and venom in her tone. "I don't know who you are or why you think this is funny, but my son died ten years ago."

"No, Mom, it's really me!" Trunks' voice scaled upwards slightly. "Please come down?"

"I'll come down," Bulma snarled, "But it'll be with a shotgun to get you off my property. If you know what's good for you, you'll be gone by the time I get there."

They waited, and Kioku ran through several meditative techniques to quell his apprehension. Beside him, Trunks rocked slightly on his heels, obviously trying to look nonchalant and just as obviously failing.

Eventually, the door slid open, and Bulma stood in the doorway, bathed in the hall light. She wore a hastily donned dressing gown over a long nightgown, and hefted a heavy rifle in her slender arms. Kioku jumped back a little, not wanting to give her reason to fire. It wouldn't hurt them, of course, but it would be nice if they could skip any un-pleasantries.

"I hope you know how cruel a trick this is," Bulma grated out, squinting into the darkness. She looked the same as Kioku remembered her, save the care lines on her face. "Now, who are you, and what do you want?"

Trunks stepped forward and took the gun away, tossing it to the ground. "Mom, it really is me."

_It is I_, Kioku corrected, out of habit. Trunks ignored him.

"I don't know how to prove it to you," Trunks took another step; Kioku assumed he was trying to get into the light. "I mean, I was only four when I left home, so I don't remember much about you."

"Trunks is dead," Bulma repeated, but there was a waver in her tone that suggested she desperately wanted to believe him.

"I know. Kioku and I," Trunks gestured, and Kioku came closer, as well. "Were killed ten years ago by the _jinzouningen_. But the Namekusei Dragonballs brought us back."

Bulma's eyes raked over Kioku's form, then widened. Kioku sensed victory in Trunks' voice as his friend continued. "Come on, Mom. How many people do you know hang out with a Namekusejin? It's us."

Shock worked its way across Bulma's pretty features, and she stumbled backwards. Trunks took the opportunity to walk inside, where the light illuminated his face for the first time. Kioku felt his breath catch as he waited, though he wasn't sure why he felt so anxious.

Trunks smiled softly, and Bulma's hand flew to her mouth. Kioku watched as life breathed into the woman's worn, haggard face, lifting years of worry and sorrow and making her look beautiful once more. "Trunks-chan?" her voice was the barest whisper, stuck in her throat, and her dark eyes shimmered with tears.

He nodded, and Bulma let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. "My baby boy!" she cried out, lifting a hand and tracing her fingers over Trunks' face. Her expression was awestruck. "You've grown up so . . . so _handsome_!"

"I have a message for you," Trunks' voice grew gentle, and he took Bulma's hands in his. "From Father," Bulma gasped. "He said to tell you that he loves you, even though he never said it before."

This time the laughter made its way to tears completely, and Bulma collapsed into Trunks' waiting arms. For the first time in fifteen years, mother and son were able to embrace; for the first time ever, the mother found herself in the arms of her son.

Kioku watched the scene with a smile on his face and tears in his eyes, unprepared for the assault on his emotions. He'd known in advance that the reunion would be intense, but all the knowing in the world wasn't enough for the real thing. Trunks looked _happy_, in a way he hadn't since their childhood. A little self-consciously, Kioku wiped at his eyes.

"Kioku-chan . . .?"

Kioku froze. His mother's voice seemed to come to him through time and space, so long it had been since he'd heard it for real. Slowly, he turned around, his heart picking up pace. He half-expected it to be a dream, like the countless other times he'd imagined his mother's presence.

"Kioku-chan, is that you?" Son ChiChi stood at the base of the stairs, clutching the collar of her nightdress, ebony hair streaked with grey cascading in waves over her shoulders.

The years had left their mark on her. Gone was the sparkle in her eyes, and worry creases had replaced the smile lines on either side of her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. Her expression was haunted, the grief she'd felt clearly stamped upon her face.

But as she gazed at him, an invisible veil lifted from ChiChi's face, much as it had with Bulma. Youth returned to her tired and aging face, and her limbs appeared to regain their former strength. "Kioku-chan," she said again, "My baby's come home!"

A large rock seemed to find its place in Kioku's throat. "Yes, Mom," he choked out, his eyes stinging. "I've come back."

"Your arm grew back," ChiChi said, bizarrely, and then she and Kioku laughed at the absurdity of the statement.

Kioku didn't remember moving, but somehow he found himself in his mother's arms, the two of them clutching each other as though their very lives depended on it. ChiChi didn't ask what had happened or how Kioku was back, and didn't seem to care. Kioku buried his face in her hair, as her smell came flooding back to him.

"Mother," Kioku's words trembled, and he fought to steady them. "I've missed you so much!"

All ChiChi could say was, "My baby . . . my sweet baby," repeatedly. To Kioku, however, that was as eloquent as the most prepared speeches.

Eventually, ChiChi pulled back. "Oh my, aren't we being silly," she laughed, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. "Come in, boys — excuse me, young men!" she tittered, having given way to giddiness. "You shouldn't stand outside in the cold, and Gohan will want to see you . . . Trunks is probably hungry, too; I'll make you some food . . ."

Kioku mouth quirked, and he let her babble on and bustle about the kitchen, content to be in her presence again. The faded and photographs and conjured memories didn't do his mother justice. ChiChi was just as fascinated, stopping more than once to touch his face and wrap him in another hug.

"The last time I saw you," ChiChi said at one point, holding their fingers together, "Your hands were so _tiny_! Now mine look like a child's next to yours."

Kioku only laughed. Next to them, Bulma had lost the ability to speak, merely tracing the outlines of Trunks' face with her gaze. Trunks regained his composure with the initial emotion out of the way; he was starting to look embarrassed, and Kioku grinned. Silly Saiyajin and their "thing" about sentimentality . . .

"Where's Gohan?" Kioku spoke up, once everyone's tears and shock had abated. "Is he out fighting?"

ChiChi jumped. "Oh my goodness! No, he's sleeping! Oh, what a terrible mother I am, to forget my son —"she leapt up from the sofa and took off up the stairs.

Bulma sat back and gazed at Trunks again; Kioku got the feeling she would never get tired of it, soaking him all in. "I see you still have my hair," she noted, playing with the long ponytail, "Though you have more than I ever did."

Trunks looked as though he wasn't sure what to think or say, and he fiddled with the loop of leather keeping his hair back. "Well, it grew so fast there really wasn't any point in cutting it, so . . ."

"You'll have to let me play with it," Bulma declared, and both she and Kioku chuckled at the alarm that crossed Trunks' face. "Oh, don't be silly; I'm not going to put bows or a French braid in it. I just want to fix the unevenness, that's all."

"I'm awfully attached to my hair, Mom," Trunks said warily, "And Father said you'd take shears to it if I wasn't careful."

"Your father knows me well," Bulma said wryly. "How is he?"

"Mellow, for him," Trunks smirked. "He's proud of you; I know that much."

Bulma's eyes clouded over for a brief moment. "I wish I could see him again."

"I dunno, he's gotten kinda' ugly," Trunks deadpanned, then burst out laughing when Bulma gave him an incredulous stare. "I'm kidding, Mom . . . don't worry."

Bulma didn't have the chance for a retort, because just then a loud, "WHAT?" sounded from above. Moments later, Gohan flew into the room and tackled Trunks and Kioku simultaneously, knocking them off the couch and onto a crumpled heap.

"I can't believe this!" Gohan sounded overjoyed, and happy tears flowed from his eyes. "You're back!"

Kioku couldn't believe how much Gohan had changed. Doing the math in his head, Kioku figured that Gohan was twenty-seven now, and he had more battle scars than any body should be capable of sustaining. It was as though he the scar tissue was what was holding him together.

But the most surprising thing was how much he resembled Goku, despite the cropped shag of hair. It was so uncanny, in fact, that Kioku felt pinpricks behind his eyelids, but he pushed them back.

It was some time before any of them spoke again, because Gohan started an impromptu wrestling match in lieu of figuring out just what he was trying to say. Kioku didn't mind; part of him wanted to show Gohan how strong he had become.

Eventually, they collapsed in a sweaty heap, bruised but grinning. Kioku rotated his shoulder to put it back in the socket, his mother wincing when it popped into place once more. Trunks fixed a dislocated jaw, and Gohan nursed a black eye.

"Our babies are back all right," ChiChi laughed, "You aren't home for five minutes and you're already sparring."

They spent a good hour catching up, enjoying each other's presences and basking in the togetherness. Kioku couldn't believe how at ease he felt in a place he hadn't seen for so long; he'd been in Other World for twice as long as he'd been alive, but it felt as though he and Trunks had never left. At one point, he commented upon this, and Trunks agreed. Once, Bulma asked about their bodies, child-form, in the graves, but Kioku explained that Enma Dai-Ou had foreseen and fixed that problem. When the two returned to life, their previous bodies disappeared. ChiChi thought that odd, but said she'd rather them alive any day.

"Oh!" Kioku exclaimed an hour afterward, startling the others. ChiChi and Bulma had gone to fix a meal for the two demi-Saiyajin, so the boys were alone. "Gohan, I have something for you."

Gohan lifted an eyebrow. "You brought something back from Other World?"

"No, not exactly," Kioku felt a smile creep over his face, and he silently informed Trunks of his intentions. His friend brightened, beaming in expectation. While Gohan peppered him with questions, Kioku closed his eyes and contacted Piccolo through their new link.

It didn't take long to explain what he had in mind, and Kioku sensed Piccolo's eagerness even through the veil he used to try to hide it. When everything was ready, Kioku opened his eyes. "Gohan," he bowed slightly, "Someone would like to talk to you."

Then, Piccolo took over his body. It was a strange sensation; time had no real meaning, and Kioku didn't know what was going on. He was aware that somewhere his mouth was moving, but knew he wasn't the one in control, and had no idea what Piccolo was saying or doing. It was like watching a movie with the volume on low and very bad reception.

Eventually, Kioku regained control, and when he did, Gohan attacked him with a ferocious bear hug. "Thank you," his brother's words sounded muffled, as he had buried his face in Kioku's shoulder. "I've missed Piccolo-san _so much_, and . . . I just can't tell you how much this means to me."

Kioku hugged him back, happy he could do something to make up for leaving for so long.

Once the food disappeared and everyone's disbelief finally faded, the conversation turned to matters of a more practical nature. Kioku learned that Gohan had been unable to defeat the _jinzouningen_, despite constantly improving in strength. The machines found it amusing to toy with him, and every battle left Gohan more and more frustrated.

"You won't have to worry about that anymore," Trunks declared firmly. All traces of his jocular demeanour vanished once the _jinzouningen_ came up; his face became taut and hard, his eyes flinty. "Kioku and I have trained with Kaiou-sama and Father and all the fighters; we've gotten much stronger."

"I don't doubt that," Gohan shook his head. "But you've only fought the _jinzouningen_ once. I've fought them every week at _least_, for the past eighteen years. You have no idea how powerful they are."

"Trunks-kun is right," Kioku spoke up. He usually preferred to let Trunks do the talking, but with such an important topic, he felt he needed to contribute. "Besides; we've learned a technique or two that should let us defeat the _jinzouningen_ without serious difficulty."

Gohan looked sceptical, but Kioku supposed he couldn't blame him. After all, Gohan was the one with the battle scars. "And just what is that?"

Trunks merely favoured him with an enigmatic smile, and Kioku repressed the urge to roll his eyes. He doubted he'd ever understand Trunks' obsession with mystery and intrigue. To him, it was just a waste of time. "We've found a way to combine our energies so that we fight as one," Trunks explained without really explaining anything.

Gohan frowned, but Trunks refused to elaborate. Kioku figured his best friend would get annoyed if he spoiled the big secret, so he kept his mouth shut. Gohan finally gave up trying.

"All right, so you two can defeat them," Gohan crossed his arms, "But I'm coming along. I've fought them for most of my life; I can't just stand by and let someone else do the work for me. It wouldn't feel right."

"That's only fair," Kioku interjected, before Trunks could object. Trunks' reply was a nasty look and an incredulous mental comment, asking why Kioku thought he wouldn't want Gohan along. Kioku didn't reply.

"I think we've had enough business for one night," Bulma said, during a lull in the discussion. Her brow furrowed, and she chewed on one chipped, pink fingernail. "Every day I hear about the _jinzouningen_; just for one night I'd like to enjoy having you three together. Tomorrow you can go fight and make heroes of yourselves, but can't we have fun tonight?"

The fighters agreed, and spent the next few hours in frivolity and reminiscences. Finally, they decided to turn in some time between three and four a.m.; though Trunks, Kioku and Gohan were still wide-awake, the women were yawning quite profusely.

"We kept your room exactly as you left it," Bulma said, leading Trunks and Kioku up the stairs to the sleeping level. "Even your toys are still all over the floor; not that those matter anymore, but it's the thought that counts."

"I always hoped you would return one day," ChiChi said softly, reaching over and squeezing Kioku's hand. He smiled at her. "I knew it was silly, but some part of me refused to give up."

"Good thing, too," Kioku pointed out. "We always knew we'd come back when we finished our training, but we couldn't contact you in case something happened."

"That doesn't' matter anymore," Bulma chirped, "You're back; that's all that matters."

At this point, they reached Trunks and Kioku's old bedroom, and a long silence fell. It was not a reverent pause; in fact, it was quite the opposite. Kioku and Trunks gaped, Gohan snorted, and both ChiChi and Bulma stifled giggles.

"Oh my," Bulma let out a decidedly undignified titter, "We didn't think of _this_, did we, ChiChi!"

"No, indeed," the younger woman agreed, laughing.

Everyone stared at the tiny bed the two boys used to share; while adequate fifteen years prior, it was now hilariously short and nowhere near wide enough. Kioku and Trunks shared an amused glance, and Kioku wished Goku were here. He would have found the situation uproariously funny.

"At least you have lots of guest rooms," Gohan managed to sputter through the hand he had pressed to his mouth. "I can't believe we didn't think of that until now."

"Well boys," Bulma tried admirably to stop the snickers, but they still escaped through her pursed lips. "There are two guest rooms down the hall; you can each take one."

Upon hearing those words, an irrational fear spread through Kioku. An adult though he was, he had yet to sleep through a night where Trunks, Goku, or Piccolo was not with him. Now, with the presence of Daimaou fresh in his consciousness, he felt more afraid than ever.

But how to explain this to his mother? How to tell Gohan that he could face the _jinzouningen_ tomorrow, but was still afraid of the dark?

_Well,_ he amended, _Not so much afraid of the dark as afraid of shadows. But that amounts to the same thing._

Kioku was still agonizing over whether he should tough it out for once when Trunks saved him the trouble. "Kioku and I have to share a room, Mom," the lavender-haired youth shrugged. "Kioku gets really bad nightmares if I'm not there. It's a long story, but Daimaou tries to take over him at night. If someone isn't there to connect with him, well . . . we don't know what will happen."

"Really?" ChiChi gave Kioku a speculative look, and he nodded, feeling somewhat sheepish. "My, things really haven't changed. My little boy still gets nightmares."

"He probably always will," Trunks added, slinging one arm over Kioku's shoulders, "At least, that's what Piccolo said. I don't know how I'm gonna explain this if I ever get married . . . 'Honey, this is Kioku. He has to sleep in the same room as us so he doesn't get nightmares, but it's okay. He's asexual'," at the last part, Trunks shot Kioku an impish smirk.

Blood rushed to Kioku's cheeks in a rare blush, but fortunately, no one said anything else. Bulma gave them her parents' old bedroom, the only room with two single beds in it; no one felt like moving furniture at such a late hour.

Long after Kioku and Trunks got themselves settled and Gohan went off to bed, ChiChi and Bulma stayed in the room, sitting on chairs at the edge of the beds. "I don't think I'll ever get used to having you back," ChiChi said softly, tracing one finger over Kioku's forehead. "It's a dream come true . . . literally!"

"I'm glad to be back, Mom," Kioku wanted to talk to her all night, but his eyelids were drooping. "I just wish Dad could see you. He talked about you all the time."

"Did he?" Kioku didn't miss the girlish lilt to his mother's voice as she said this, and he smiled.

"Yes, he did," Kioku yawned, unable to hold it back. ChiChi kissed him on the forehead and stood up.

"Good night, boys," she and Bulma said in unison, and they left.

Kioku rolled over, expecting to drift off immediately, but that didn't happen. Instead, he found himself staring at the wall while the clock on the mantel ticked obnoxiously. After the repetitive clicks marked off nearly an hour, Kioku was more than a little irritated.

_Why can't I sleep?_ He knuckled his eyes, wanting nothing more than to rest. It had been a long day. _I'm tired enough; I'm not overly excited or anything, either. What's going on?_

"Kioku?"

Trunks' voice, soft and hesitant, startled Kioku from his thoughts. "What?"

"Can't sleep, either?"

"No. I don't know why, though."

Trunks sighed, and Kioku heard the blankets rustle as his friend turned to face him. In the darkness, Kioku barely made out Trunks' form, his chin propped up on his palm. "I think it's the beds."

"Pardon?" Kioku shifted a little to test the mattress, but it felt perfectly comfortable to him.

"No, really," Trunks insisted. "When was the last time we slept in an actual bed? Heck, when was the last time we slept under a _roof_? We've spent the past few years lying on the ground on sleeping pallets. No wonder we can't sleep."

Kioku thought it over, and realized Trunks was right. Now that he thought about it, the bed did feel strange. It was an unnecessary comfort, almost a frill, after living with bare essentials while they trained. "So what do we do?"

Trunks shrugged. "I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going outside. It's going to take awhile to get used to this again."

"Good idea," Kioku picked up his blanket and pillow and followed Trunks downstairs, content again to be the follower in Trunks' plans. He wondered idly if their mothers would worry, but even if they did, he and Trunks wouldn't be far away.

"This is much better," Trunks remarked later, once they settled themselves outside. The two of them lay in the yard with their backs pressed together, pillows resting on separate tree roots. "It's weird, but this feels more at home to me than all the fluffy mattresses in Mom's house."

"I agree," almost instantly, Kioku felt slumber come upon him. "'Night, Trunks-kun."

"'Night, Kiku."

The use of the almost-forgotten pet name made Kioku smile, and he drifted off with the small grin still upon his lips.

The next morning just before dawn, a panicked ChiChi found the two young men sound asleep under the tree, blankets entangled around their legs. Kioku lay with his head pillowed on Trunks' arm, and ChiChi laughed to herself.

"Just like children," she murmured, before bending over to fix the twisted sheets. Her brow furrowed for an instant as she regarded them. "They've seen so much. How can they ever adjust?"

No one answered her, and her question was borne away by the early morning breeze. With a sigh, ChiChi turned and went back into the house. She knew her babies would fight the _jinzouningen_ today no matter what, and the longer they slept the better . . .

* * *

A/N: At least you can't complain that I left for a long time and then came back with a pitifully short chapter! I made it long on purpose, as an apology for those die-hards who haven't given up in disgust. _If_ there are any of you left.

Any overly descriptive ... um ... descriptions of Trunks and/or his body and/or him bleeding and/or his apparel and/or his smirk are fanservice for my little sister, known to many of you as a chronic Trunksophile. I am not fond of Trunks myself, so do not think I write him as sexy for my own benefit. I just think it's funny to watch Mira's eyes roll back in her head when I read to her. snicker

Oh, and I wanted to add this, as I'll probably get comments if I don't: Trunks and Kioku are not gay. Kioku isn't _anything_ — I decided I wasn't going to get into the whole "But-Piccolo-was-sent-to-Earth-before-the-cataclysm-so-he-wasn't-born-of-Guru-and-he-had-two-parents-so-he's-probably-a-sexual-being" argument in this story. Too complicated. If Trunks and Kioku seem to _act_ gay to my readers, it's because I believe that when two friends go through as much as they have together, their friendship transcends normal boundaries. Look at the other Z-senshi: Kuririn and Goku embrace more than _ChiChi_ and Goku do. Look at Merry and Pippin, or Frodo and Sam, of Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings_. Same thing here. Trunks and Kioku are very, very, _very_ close, but they never will "get together" in that sense. I don't think it adds anything to the story. If it _still_ bothers you, then I don't know what to tell you.

Watches as most of the readers sigh in relief, and a small portion in disappointment...

That's it for now! While I don't know how long the next chapter will take, I can certainly promise that it won't be as long as this one. Even if I am starting back to Uni on Thursday, I do intend to finish this. I love mah Kioku too much to leave him dangling.


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